GIFT  or 

Yoshi  S.   Kuno 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


BY 

CHARLES    DICKENS. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


NEW   YORK 

JOHN  W.   LOVELL   COMPANY 

150  Worth  Street,  corner  Mission  Place 


i^m7 


K  S.  ^-^ 


PREFACE. 


I  ^.was  occupied  with  this  story,  during  many  working 
hours  of  two  years.  1  must  have  been  very  ill  employed,  if 
•  I  could  not  leave  its  merits  and  demerits  as  a  whole,  to  ex- 
press themselves  on  its  being  read  as  a  whole. 

If  I  might  offer  any  apology  for  so  exaggerated  a  fiction 
as  the  Barnacles  and  the  circumlocution  office,  I  would 
seek  it  in  the  common  experience  of  an  Englishman,  with- 
out presuming  to  mention  the  unimportant  fact  of  my  having 
done  that  violence  to  good  manners,  in  the  days  of  a  Russian 
war,  and  of  a  court  of  inquiry  at  Chelsea.  If  I  might 
make  so  bold  as  to  defend  that  extravagant  conception,  Mr. 
Merdle,  I  would  hint  that  it  originated  after  the  railroad- 
share  epoch,  in  the  times  of  a  certain  Irish  bank,  and  of  one 
or  two  other  equally  laudable  enterprises.  If  I  were  to  plead 
any  thing  in  mitigation  of  the  preposterous  fancy  that  a  bad 
design  will  sometimes  claim  to  be  a  good  and  an  expressly 
religious  design,  it  would  be  the  curious  coincidence  that 
such  fancy  was  brought  to  its  climax  in  these  pages,  in  the 
days  of  the  public  examination  of  late  directors  of  a  Royal 
British  Bank.  But  I  submit  myself  to  suffer  judgment 
to  go  by  default  on  all  these  counts,  if  need  be,  and  to  accept 
the  assurance  (on  good  authority)  that  nothing  like  them 
was  ever  known  in  this  land. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  have  an  interest  in  being  informed 
whether  or  no  any  portions  of  the  Marshalsea  Prison  are  yet 
standing.  I  myself  did  not  know,  until  I  was  approaching 
the  end  of  this  story,  when  I  went  to  look.  I  found  the 
outer  front  court-yard,  often  mentioned  here,  metamorphosed 
into  a  butter  shop  ;  and  I  then  almost  gave  up  every  brick  of 
the  jail  for  lost.  Wandering,  however,  down  a  certain 
adjacent  "  Angel  Court,  leading  to  Bermondsey,"  I  came  to 
**  Marshalsea  Place  :"  the  houses  in  which  I  recognized,  not 
only  as  the  great  block  of  the  former  prison,  but  as  preserving 
the  rooms  that  arose  in  my  mind's- eye  when  1  became  Little 

Pi94478 


iv  PREFACE. 

Dorrit's  biographer.  The  smallest  boy  I  ever  conversed 
with,  carrying  the  largest  baby  I  ever  saw,  offered  a  super- 
naturally  intelligent  explanation  of  the  locality  in  its  old 
uses,  and  was  very  nearly  correct.  How  this  young  Newton 
(for  such  I  judge  him  to  be)  came  by  his  information,  I  don't 
know  ;  he  was  a  quarter  of  a  century  too  young  to  know  any 
thing  about  it  of  himself.  I  pointed  to  the  window  of  the 
room  where  Little  Dorrit  was  born,  and  where  her  father  lived 
so  long,  and  asked  him  what  was  the  name  of  the  lodger 
who  tenanted  that  apartment  at  present  ?  He  said,  ^'  Tom 
Py thick."  I  asked  him  who  was  Tom  Py thick  ?  and  he 
said,  **  Joe  Pythick's  uncle." 

A  little  further  on,  I  found  the  older  and  smaller  wall, 
which  used  to  inclose  the  pent-up  inner  prison  where  nobody 
was  put,  except  for  ceremony.  Whosoever  goes  into  Mar- 
shalsea  Place,  turning  out  of  Angel  Court,  leading  to  Ber- 
mondsey,  will  find  his  feet  on  the  very  paving-stones  of  the 
extinct  Marshalsea  Jail  ;  will  see  its  narrow  yard  to  the  right 
and  to  the  left,  very  little  altered  if  at  all,  except  that  the 
walls  were  lowered  when  the  place  got  free  ;  will  look  upon 
the  room  in  which  the  debtors  lived  ;  will  stand  among 
the  crowding  ghosts  of  many  miserable  years. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST.— POVERTY. 


CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 

relation^ 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 
CHAPTER 

Dorrit's 
CHAPTER 


I.  Sun  and  shadow, 

II.  Fellow-travelers, 

III.  Home,     .... 

IV.  Mrs.  Flintwinch  has  a  dream, 

V.  Family  affairs,    . 

VI.  The  father  of  the  Marshalsea, 

VII.  The  child  of  the  Marshalsea, 

VIII.  The  lock,      . 

IX.  Little  mother,  . 

X.  Containing  the  whole  science  of 

XI.  Let  loose, 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard,     . 

Patriarchal,  . 
Little  Dorrit's  party, 
Mrs.  Flintwinch  has  anotlier  dream. 
Nobody's  weakness, 
Nobody's  rival,    . 


XiL 

XIII 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVIL 

XVIII.  Little  Dorrit's  lover, 

XIX.  The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  in  two  or 


XX.  Moving  in  society, 

XXI.  Mr.  Merdle's  complaint, 

XXII.  A  puzzle,     . 

XXIII.  Machinery  in  motion, 

XXIV.  Fortune-telling, 

XXV.  Conspirators  and  others, 

XXVI.  Nobody's  state  of  mind, 

XXVII.  Five-and-twenty, 

XXVI II.  Nobody's   disappearance, 

XXIX.  Mrs.  Flintwinch  goes  on  dreaming, 

XXX.  The  word  of  a  gentleman,    . 


government, 


XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXX5II. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

hand, 

XXXVI. 


Spirit, 

More  fortune-telling, 
Mrs,  Merdle's  complaint, 

A  shoal  of  Barnacles, 
What   was   behind    Mr.    Pancks   on   Little 


three 


The  Marshalsea  becomes  an  orphan. 


PAGE. 
9 

23 


412 
425 


vi  CONTENTS^ 

BOOK  THE  SECOND.— RICHES. 

PAGE. 

CHAPTER  I.     Fellow-travelers, 433 

CHAPTER  II.     Mrs.  General, 449 

CHAPTER  III.     On  the  road, 453 

CHAPTER  IV.  A  letter  from  Little  Dorrit,  ,  .  .  .469 
CHAPTER  V.  Something  wrong  somewhere,  ....  473 
CHAPTER  VI.  Something  right  somewhere,  ....  488 
CHAPTER  Vn.  Mostly,  prunes  and  prism,  .  .  .  .504 
CHAPTER  Vni.     The  dowager  Mrs.  Gowan  is  reminded  that  it 

never  does,     . 515 

CHAPTER  IX.  Appearance  and  disappearance,  .  .  .  527 
CHAPTER  X.  The  dreams  of  Mrs.  Flintwinch  thicken,  .  .  543 
CHAPTER  XI.  A  letter  from  Little  Dorrit,  ....  550 
CHAPTER  XII.  In  which  a  great  patriotic  conference  is  holden  556 
CHAPTER  XIII.     The  progress  of  an  epidemic,         .         .         .     571 

CHAPTER  XIV.     Taking  advice, 586 

CHAPTER  XV.     No  just  cause  or  impediment  why  these  two 

persons  should  not  be  joined  together,     .....      597 

CHAPTER  XVI.     Getting  on, 614 

CHAPTER  XVII.     Missing,  621 

CHAPTER  XVIII.     A  castle  in  the  air, 631 

CHAPTER  XIX.     The  storming  of  the  castle  in  the  air,     .         .     638 

CHAPTER  XX.     Introduces  the  next 653 

CHAPTER  XXI.  The  history  of  a  self-tormentor,  .  .  .664 
CHAPTER  XXII.     Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ?  .         .     673 

CHAPTER  XXIII.     Mrs.    Affery  makes  a  conditional  promise 

respecting  her  dreams,    ........     6S0 

CHAPTER  XXIV.     The  evening  of  a  long  day,  .         .         .693 

CHAPTER  XXV.     The  chief  butler  resigns  the  seals  of  office,    .     703 
CHAPTER  XXVI.     Reaping  the  whirlWind,       ....     712 

CHAPTER  XXVIL  The  pupil  of  the  Marshalsea,  .  .  .721 
CHAPTER  XXVIII.     An  appearance  in  the  Marshalsea,    .         .     736 

CHAPTER  XXIX.     A  plea  in  the  Marshalsea 755 

CHAPTER  XXX.     Closing  in 764 

CHAPTER  XXXI.     Closed, 788 

CHAPTER  XXXII.     Going 797 

CHAPTER  XXXIIL     Going! .805 

CHAPTER  XXXIV.    Gone.      .        .     ' 815 


LITTLE   DORRIT. 


BOOK   THE    FIRST.     POVERTY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SUN    AND   SHADOW. 

Thirty  years  ago,  Marseilles  lay  burning  in  the  sun,  one  day. 

A  blazing  sun  upon  a  fierce  August  day  was  no  greater 
rarity  in  southern  France  then,  than  at  any  other  time,  be- 
fore or  since.  Every  thing  in  Marseilles,  and  about  Mar- 
seilles, had  stared  at  the  fervid  sky,  and  been  stared  at  in 
return,  until  a  staring  habit  had  become  universal  there. 
Strangers  were  stared  out  of  countenance  by  staring  white 
houses,  staring  white  walls,  staring  white  streets,  staring 
tracts  of  arid  road,  staring  hills  frorn  which  verdure  was 
burned  away.  The  only  things  to  be  seen  not  fixedly  staring 
and  glaring  were  the  vines  drooping  under  their  load  of 
grapes.  These  did  occasionally  wink  a  little,  as  the  hot  air 
barely  moved  their  faint  leaves. 

There  was  no  wind  to  make  a  ripple  on  the  foul  water 
within  the  harbor,  or  on  the  beautiful  sea  without.  The 
line  of  demarkation  between  the  two  colors,  black  and  blue, 
showed  the  point  which  the  pure  sea  would  not  pass  ;  but 
it  lay  as  quiet  as  the  abominable  pool,  with  which  it  never 
mixed.  Boats  without  awnings  were  too  hot  to  touch  ;  ships 
blistered  at  their  moorings  ;  the  stones  of  the  quays  had 
not  cooled,  night  or  day,  for  months.  Hindoos,  Russians, 
Chinese,  Spaniards,  Portuguese,  Englishmen,  Frenchmen, 
Genoese,  Neapolitans, Venetians,  Greeks,  Turks,  descendants 
from  all  the  builders  of  Babel,  come  to  trade  at  Marseilles, 
sought  the   shade  alike — taking  refuge  in  any  hiding-place 


lo  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

from  a  sea  too  intensely  blue  to  be  looked  at,  and  a  sky  of 
purple,  set  with  one  great  flaming  jewel  of  fire. 

The  universal  stare  made  the  eyes  ache.  Toward  the  dis- 
tant line  of  Italian  coast,  indeed,  it  was  a  little  relieved  by 
light  clouds  of  mist,  slowly  rising  from  the  evaporation  of 
the  sea,  but  it  softened  nowhere  else.  Far  away  the  staring 
roads,  deep  in  dust,  stared  from  the  hill-side,  stared  from 
the  hollow,  stared  from  the  interminable  plain.  Far  away 
the  dusty  vines  overhanging  wayside  cottages,  and  the  mo- 
notonous wayside  avenues  of  parched  trees  without  shade, 
drooped  beneath  the  stare  of  earth  and  sky.  So  did  the 
horses  with  drowsy  bells,  in  long  files  of  carts,  creeping 
slowly  toward  the  interior  ;  so  did  their  recumbent  drivers, 
when  they  were  awake,  which  rarely  happened  ;  so  did  the 
exhausted  laborers  in  the  fields.  Every  thing  that  lived  or 
grew,  was  oppressed  by  the  glare  ;  except  the  lizard,  passing 
swiftly  over  rough  stone  walls,  and  the  cicala,  chirping  his 
4ry  hot  chirp,  like  a  rattle.  The  very  dust  was  scorched 
brown,  and  something  quivered  in  the  atmosphere  as  if  the 
air  itself  were  panting. 

Blinds,  shutters,  curtains,  awnings,  were  all  closed  and 
drawn  to  keep  out  the  stare.  Grant  it  but  a  chink  or  key- 
hole, and  it  shot  in  like  a  white-hot  arrow.  The  churches 
were  the  freest  from  it.  To  come  out  of  the  twilight  of 
pillars  and  arches — dreamily  dotted  with  winking  lamps, 
dreamily  peopled  with  ugly  old  shadows  piously  dozing,  spit- 
ting, and  begging — was  to  plunge  into  a  fiery  river,  and  swim 
for  life  to  the  nearest  strip  for  shade.  So,  with  people  loung- 
ing and  lying  wherever  shade  was,  with  but  little  hum  of 
tongues  or  barking  of  dogs,  with  occasional  jangling  of  dis- 
cordant church  bells,  and  rattling  of  vicious  drums,  Mar- 
seilles, a  fact  to  be  strongly  smelled  and  tasted,  lay  broiling 
in  the  sun  one  day. 

In  Marseilles  that  day  there  was  a  villainous  prison.  In 
one  of  its  chambers,  so  repulsive  a  place  that  even  the  obtru- 
sive stare  blinked  at  it,  and  left  it  to  such  refuse  of  reflected 
light  as  it  could  find  for  itself,  were  two  men.  Besides  the 
two  men,  a  notched  and  disfigured  bench,  immovable  from  the 
wall,  with  a  draught-board  rudely  hacked  upon  it  with  a  knife, 
a  set  of  draughts,  made  of  old  buttons  and  soup-bones,  a  set 
of  dominoes,  two  mats,  and  two  or  three  wine  bottles.  That 
was  all  the  chamber  held,  exclusive  of  rats  and  other  unseen 
vermin,  in  addition  to  the  seen  vermin,  the  two  men. 

It  received  such  light  as  it  got,  through  a  grating  of  iron 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  ii 

bars,  fashioned  like  a  pretty  large  window,  by  means  of  which 
it  could  be  always  inspected  from  the  gloomy  staircase  on 
which  the  grating  gave.  There  was  a  broad  strong  ledge  of 
stone  to  this  grating,  where  the  bottom  of  it  was  let  into  the 
masonry,  three  or  four  feet  above  the  ground.  Upon  it,  one 
of  the  two  men  lolled,  half-sitting  and  half-lying,  with  his 
knees  drawn  up,  and  his  feet  and  shoulders  planted  against 
the  opposite  sides  of  the  aperture.  The  bars  were  wide 
enough  apart  to  admit  of  his  thrusting  his  arm  through  to  the 
elbow  ;  and  so  he  held  on  negligently,   for  his  greater  ease. 

A  prison  taint  was  on  every  thing  there.  The  imprisoned 
air,  the  imprisoned  light,  the  imprisoned  damps,  the  impris- 
oned men,  were  all  deteriorated  by  confinement.  As  the  cap- 
tive men  were  faded  and  haggard,  so  the  iron  was  rusty,  the 
stone  was  slimy,  the  wood  was  rotten,  the  air  was  faint,  the 
light  was  dim.  Like  a  well,  like  a  vault,  like  a  tomb,  the 
prison  had  no  knowledge  of  the  brightness  outside  ;  and 
would  have  kept  its  polluted  atmosphere  intact,  in  one  of  the 
spice  islands  of  the  Indian  Ocean. 

The  man  who  lay  on  the  ledge  of  the  grating  was  even 
chilled.  He  jerked  his  great  cloak  more  heavily  upon  him 
by  an  impatient  movement  of  one  shoulder,  and  growled, 
*'  To  the  devil  with  this  brigand  of  a  sun  that  never  shines 
in  here  !  " 

He  was  waiting  to  be  fed  ;  looking  sideways  through  the 
bars,  that  he  might  see  the  further  down  the  stairs,  with  much 
of  the  expression  of  a  wild  beast  in  similar  expectation.  But 
his  eyes,  too  close  together,  were  not  so  nobly  set  in  his  head 
as  those  of  the  king  of  beasts  are  in  his,  and  they  were  sharp 
rather  than  bright — pointed  weapons  with  a  little  surface  to 
betray  them.  They  had  no  depth  or  change  ;  they  glittered, 
and  they  opened  and  shut.  So  far,  and  waiving  their  use  to 
himself,  a  clock-maker  could  have  made  a  better  pair.  He 
had  a  hook  nose,  handsome  after  its  kind,  but  too  high 
between  the  eyes,  by  probably  just  as  much  as  his  eyes  were 
too  near  to  one  another.  For  the  rest,  he  was  large  and  tall 
in  frame,  had  thin  lips,  where  his  thick  mustache  showed 
them  at  all,  and  a  quantity  of  dry  hair,  of  no  definable  color, 
in  its  shaggy  state,  but  shot  with  red.  The  hand  with  which 
he  held  the  grating  (seamed  all  over  the  back  with  ugly 
scratches  newly  healed),  was  unusually  small  and  plump  ; 
would  have  been  unusually  white,  but  for  the  prison  grime. 

The  other  man  was  lying  on  the  stone  floor,  covered  with 
a  coarse  brown  coat. 


12  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  Get  up,  pig  !  "  growled  the  first.  ''  Don't  sleep  when  I 
am  hungry." 

**  It's  all  one,  master,"  said  the  pig,  in  a  submissive  man- 
ner, and  without  cheerfulness  ;  "  I  can  wake  when  I  will,  I 
can  sleep  when  I  will.     It's  all  the  same." 

As  he  said  it,  he  rose,  shook  himself,  scratched  himself, 
tied  his  brown  coat  loosely  round  his  neck  by  the  sleeves  (he 
had  previously  used  it  as  a  coverlet),  and  sat  down  upon  the 
pavement  yawning,  with  his  back  against  the  wall  opposite 
to  the  grating. 

"  Say  what  the  hour  is,"  grumbled  the  first  man. 

**  The  mid-day  bells  will  ring — in  forty  minutes."  When 
he  made  the  little  pause,  he  had  looked  round  the  prison- 
room,  as  if  for  certain  information. 

*'  You  are  a  clock.     How  is  it  that  you  always  know  ?  " 

**  How  can  I  say  ?  I  always  know  what  the  hour  is,  and 
where  I  am.  I  was  brought  in  here  at  night,  and  out  of  a 
boat,  but  I  know  where  I  am.  See  here  !  Marseilles  harbor;" 
on  his  knees  on  the  pavement,  mapping  it  all  out  with  a 
swarthy  forefinger  ;  ^'  Toulon  (where  the  galleys  are),  Spain 
over  there,  Algiers  over  f/ier^r.  Creeping  away  to  the  left 
here,  Nice.  Round  by  the  Cornice  to  Genoa.  Genoa  Mole 
and  Harbor.  Quarantine  Ground.  City  there  ;  terrace  gar- 
dens blushing  with  the  bella  donna.  Here,  Porto  Fino. 
Stand  out  for  Leghorn.     Out  again  for  Civita  Vecchia.     So 

away  in  to hey  !  there's  no  room  for  Naples  ;  "  he  had  got 

to  the  wall  by  this  time  ;  **  but  it's  all   one  ;  it's  in  there  !  " 

He  remains  on  his  knees,  looking  up  at  his  fellow  pris- 
oner with  a  lively  look  for  a  prison.  A  sunburned,  quick, 
lithe,  little  raan,  though  rather  thick-set.  Ear-rings  in  his 
brown  ears,  white  teeth  lighting  up  his  grotesque  brown  face, 
intensely  black  hair  clustering  about  his  brown  throat,  a  rag- 
ged red  shirt  open  at  his  brown  breast.  Loose,  seamanlike 
trowsers,  decent  shoes,  a  long  red  cap,  a  red  sash  round  his 
waist,  and  a  knife  in  it. 

"  Judge  if  I  come  back  from  Naples  as  I  went  !  See  here, 
my  master  !  Civita  Vecchia,  Leghorn,  Porto  Fino,  Genoa, 
Cornice,  Off  Nice  (which  is  in  there),  Marseilles,  you  and  me. 
The  apartment  of  the  jailer  and  his  keys  is  where  I  put  this 
thumb  ;  and  here  at  my  wrist  they  keep  the  national  razor 
in  its  "case — the  guillotine  locked  up." 

The  other  man  spat  suddenly  on  the  pavement,  and  gur- 
gled in  his  throat. 

^ome  lock  below  gurgled  in  i7s  throat  immediately  after- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  13 

ward,  and  then  a  door  clashed.  Slow  steps  began  ascend- 
ing the  stairs  ;  the  prattle  of  a  sweet  little  voice  mingled  with 
the  noise  they  made  ;  and  the  prison-keeper  appeared, 
carrying  his  daughter,  three  or  four  years  old,  and  a  basket. 

''  How  goes  the  world  this  forenoon,  gentlemen  ?  My 
little  one,  you  see,  going  round  with  me  to  have  a  peep 
at  her  father's  birds.  Fie,  then  !  Look  at  the  birds,  my 
pretty,  look  at  the  birds." 

He  looked  sharply  at  the  birds  himself,  as  he  held  the 
child  up  at  the  grate,  especially  at  the  little  bird,  whose 
activity  he  seemed  to  mistrust.  '^  I  have  brought  your  bread, 
Signor  John  Baptist,"  said  he  (they  all  spoke  in  French,  but 
the  little  man  was  an  Italian)  ;  ''and  if  I  might  recommend 
you  not  to  game " 

''You  don't  recommend  the  master  !  "  said  John  Baptist, 
showing  his  teeth  as  he  smiled. 

"  Oh  !  but  the  master  wins,"  returned  the  jailer,  with  a 
passing  look  of  no  particular  liking  at  the  other  man,  "  and 
you  lose.  It's  quite  another  thing.  You  get  husky  bread 
and  sour  drink  by  it  ;  and  he  gets  sausage  of  Lyons,  veal  in 
savory  jelly,  white  bread,  strachino  cheese,  and  good  wine 
by  it.     Look  at  the  birds,  my  pretty  !  " 

"  Poor  birds  !  "  said  the  child. 

The  fair  little  face,  touched  with  divine  compassion,  as  it 
peeped  shrinkingly  through  the  grate,  was  like  an  angel's  in 
the  prison.  John  Baptist  rose  and  moved  toward  it,  as  if  it 
had  a  good  attraction  for  him.  The  other  bird  remained  as 
before,  except  for  an  impatient  glance  at  the  basket. 

"  Stay  !  "  said  the  jailer,  putting  his  little  daughter  on  the 
outer  ledge  of  the  grate,  "  she  shall  feed  the  birds.  This 
big  loaf  is  for  Signor  John  Baptist.  We  must  break  it  to 
get  it  through  into  the  cage.  So,  there's  a  tame  bird  to  kiss 
the  little  hand  !  This  sausage  in  a  vine  leaf  is  for  Monsieur 
Rigaud.  Again — this  veal  in  savory  jelly  is  for  Monsieur 
Rigaud.  Again — these  three  white  little  loaves  are  for  Mon- 
sieur Rigaud.  Again,  this  cheese — again,  this  wine — again, 
this  tobacco — all  for  Monsieur  Rigaud.     Lucky  bird  !  " 

The  child  put  all  these  things  between  the  bars  into  the 
soft,  smooth,  well  shaped  hand,  with  evident  dread — more 
than  once  drawing  back  her  own  and  looking  at  the  man 
with  her  fair  brow  roughened  into  an  expression  half  of 
fright  and  half  of  anger.  Whereas  she  had  put  the  lump  of 
coarse  bread  into  the  swart,  scaled,  knotted  hands  of  John 
Baptist  (who  had  scarcely  as  much  nail  on  his  eight  fingers 


14  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  two  thumbs  as  would  have  made  out  one  for  Monsieur 
Rigaud),  with  ready  confidence  ;  and,  when  he  kissed  her 
hand,  had  herself  passed  it  caressingly  over  his  face.  Mon- 
sieur Rigaud,  indifferent  to  this  distinction,  propitiated  the 
father  by  laughing  and  nodding  at  the  daughter  as  often  as 
she  gave  him  any  thing  ;  and  so  soon  as  he  had  all  his 
viands  about  him  in  convenient  nooks  of  the  ledge  on 
which  he  rested,  began  to  eat  with  an  appetite. 

When  Monsieur  Rigaud  laughed,  a  change  took  place  in 
his  face,  that  was  more  remarkable  than  prepossessing.  His 
mustache  went  up  under  his  nose,  and  his  nose  came  down 
over  his  mustache,  in  a  very  sinister  and  cruel  manner. 

^'  There  !  "  said  the  jailer,  turning  his  basket  upside  down 
to  beat  the  crumbs  out,  ''  I  have  expended  all  the  money  I 
received  ;  here  is  the  note  of  it,  and  that' s  a  thing  accom- 
plished. Monsieur  Rigaud,  as  I  expected  yesterday,  the 
president  will  look  for  the  pleasure  of  your  society  at  an 
hour  after  mid-day,  to-day." 

"  To  try  me,  eh  ?  "  said  Rigaud,  pausing,  knife  in  hand 
and  morsel  in  mouth. 

"  You  have  said  it.     To  try  you." 

"  There  is  no  news  for  me  ?  "  asked  John  Baptist,  who  had 
begun,  contentedly,  to  munch  his  bread. 

The  jailer  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

**  Lady  of  mine  !     Am  I  to  lie  here  all  my  life,  my  father  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  know  !  "  cried  the  jailer,  turning  upon  him 
with  southern  quickness,  and  gesticulating  with  both  his 
hands  and  all  his  fingers,  as  if  he  were  threatening  to  tear 
him  to  pieces.  '*  My  friend,  how  is  it  possible  for  me  to  tell 
how  long  you  are  to  lie  here  ?  What  do  I  know,  John  Bap- 
tist Cavaletto  ?  Death  of  my  life  !  There  are  prisoners 
here  sometimes,  who  are  not  in  such  a  devil  of  a  hurry  to  be 
tried." 

He  seemed  to  glance  obliquely  at  Monsieur  Rigaud  in 
this  remark  ;  but  Monsieur  Rigaud  had  already  resumed 
his  meal,  though  not  with  quite  so  quick  an  appetite  as 
before. 

"  Adieu,  my  birds  !  "  said  the  keeper  of  the  prison,  taking 
his  pretty  child  in  his  arms,  and  dictating  the  words  with  a 
kiss. 

"  Adieu,  my  birds  !  "  the  pretty  child  repeated. 

Her  innocent  face  looked  back  so  brightly  over  his  shoul- 
der, as  he  walked  away  with  her,  singing  her  the  song  of  the 
child's  game: 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  15 


"  Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 

Campagnon  de  la  Majolaine  ! 
"Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 
Always  gay  !  " 

that  John  Baptist  felt  it  a  point  of  honor  to  reply  at  the  gate, 
and  in  good  time  and  tune,  though  a  little  hoarsely: 

**  Of  all  the  king's  knights  'tis  the  flower, 
Campagnon  de  la  Majolaine  ! 
Of  all  the  king's  knights  'tis  the  flower, 
Always  gay  I  " 

Which  accompanied  them  so  far  down  the  few  steep  stairs, 
that  the  prison-keeper  had  to  stop  at  last  for  his  little  daugh- 
ter to  hear  the  song  out,  and  repeat  the  refrain  while  they 
were  yet  in  sight.  Then  the  child's  head  disappeared,  and 
the  prison-keeper's  head  disappeared,  but  the  little  voice  . 
prolonged  the  strain  until  the  door  clashed. 

Monsieur  Rigaud,  finding  the  listening  John  Baptist  in  his 
way  before  the  echoes  had  ceased  (even  the  echoes  were  the 
weaker  for  imprisonment,  and  seemed  to  lag),  reminded  him 
with  a  push  of  his  foot  that  he  had  better  resume  his  own 
darker  place.  The  little  man  sat  down  again  upon  the  pave- 
ment, with  the  negligent  ease  of  one  who  was  thoroughly 
accustomed  to  pavements  ;  and  placing  three  hunks  of 
coarse  bread  before  himself,  and  falling  to  upon  a  fourth, 
began  contentedly  to  work  his  way  through  them,  as  if  to 
clear  them  off  were  a  sort  of  game. 

Perhaps  he  glanced  at  the  Lyons  sausage,  and  perhaps  he 
glanced  at  the  veal  in  savory  jelly,  but  they  were  not  there 
long,  to  make  his  mouth  water;  Monsieur  Rigaud  soon  dis- 
patched them,  in  spite  of  the  president  and  tribunal,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  suck  his  fingers  as  clean  as  he  could,  and  to  wipe 
them  on  his  vine  leaves.  Then  as  he  paused  in  his  drink  to 
contemplate  his  fellow-prisoner,  his  mustache  went  up,  and 
his  nose  came  down. 

**  How  do  you  find  the  bread  ?  " 

**  A  little  dry,  but  I  have  my  old  sauce  here,"  returned 
John  Baptist,  holding  up  his  knife. 

""  How  sauce  ?  " 

**  I  can  cut  my  bread  so — like  a  melon.  Or  so — like  an  ome- 
lette. Or  so — like  a  fried  fish.  Or  so — like  Lyons  sausage," 
said  John  Baptist,  demonstrating  the  various  cuts  on  the 
bread  he  held,  and  soberly  chewing  what  he  had  in  his 
mouth. 

''  Here  !  "  cried  Monsieur  Rigaud.  "  You  may  drink. 
You  may  finish  this." 

It  was  no  great  gift,  for  there  was  mighty  little  wine  left  ; 


i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

but  Signer  Cavalletto,  jumping  to  his  feet,  received  the  bot- 
tie  gratefully,  turned  it  upside  down  at  his  mouth,  and 
smacked  his  lips. 

"'  Put  the  bottle  by  with  the  rest,"  said  Rigaud. 

The  little  man  obeyed  his  orders,  and  stood  ready  to  give 
him  a  lighted  match;  for  he  was  now  rolling  his  tobacco  into 
cigarettes,  by  the  aid  of  little  squares  of  paper  which  had 
been  brought  in  with  it. 

^'  Here  !     You  may  have  one." 

^*  A  thousand  thanks,  my  master  !  "  John  Baptist  said  it 
in  his  own  language,  and  with  the  quick  conciliatory  manner 
of  his  own  countrymen. 

Monsieur  Rigaud  arose,  lighted  a  cigarette,  put  the  rest  of 
his  stock  into  a  breast-pocket  and  stretched  himself  out  at 
full  length  upon  the  bench.  Cavalletto  sat  down  on  the 
pavement,  holding  one  of  his  ankles  in  each  hand,  and 
smoking  peacefully.  There  seemed  to  be  some  uncomfor- 
table attraction  of  Monsieur  Rigaud's  eyes  to  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  that  part  of  the  pavement  where  the  thumb 
had  been  in  the  plan.  They  were  so  drawn  in  that  direction 
that  the  Italian  more  than  once  followed  them  to  and  back 
from  the  pavement  in  some  surprise. 

'^  What  an  infernal  hole  this  is  !  "  said  Monsieur  Rigaud, 
breaking  a  long  pause.  ^'  Look  at  the  light  of  day.  Day  ? 
the  light  of  yesterday  week,  the  light  of  six  months  ago,  the 
light  of  six  years  ago.     So  slack  and  dead  !  " 

It  came  languishing  down  a  square  funnel  that  blinded  a 
window  in  the  staircase  wall,  through  which  the  sky  was 
never  seen — nor  any  thing  else. 

*'  Cavciiletto,"  said  Monsieur  Rigaud,  suddenly  withdraw- 
ing his  gaze  from  this  funnel  to  which  they  had  both  invol- 
untarily turned  their  eyes,  ^^  you  know  me  for  a  gentleman?  " 

*'  Surely,  surely  I  " 

*'  How  long  have  we  been  here  ?  " 

^'  I,  eleven  weeks,  to-morrow  night  at  midnight.  You, 
nine  weeks  and  three  days,  at  five  this  afternoon." 

*'  Have  I  ever  done  any  thing  here  ?  Ever  touched  the 
broom,  or  spread  the  mats,  or  rolled  them  up,  or  found  the 
draughts,  or  collected  the  dominoes,  or  put  my  hand  to  any 
kind  of  work  ?  " 

''  Never  !  " 

^*  Have  you  ever  thought  of  looking  to  me  to  do  any  kind 
of  work? " 

John    Baptist  answered  with  that  peculiar  back-handed 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


17 


shake  of  the  right  forefmgjer  which  is  the  most  expressive 
negative  in  the  Italian  language. 

'*  No  !  You  knew  from  the  first  moment  when  you  saw 
me  here,  that  I  was  a  gentleman  ?  " 

''  Altro  !  "  returned  John  Baptist,  closing  his  eyes  and 
giving  his  head  a  most  vehement  toss.  The  word  being, 
according  to  its  Genoese  emphasis,  a  confirmation,  a  con- 
tradiction, an  assertion,  a  denial,  a  taunt,  a  compliment,  a 
joke,  and  fifty  other  things,  became  in  the  present  instance, 
with  a  significance  beyond  all  power  of  written  expression, 
our  familiar  English  "  I  believe  you  !  " 

'^  Haha  !  you  are  right  !  a  gentleman  I  am  ;  a  gentleman 
I'll  live,  and  a  gentleman  I'll  die  !  It's  my  intent  to  be  a 
gentleman.  It's  my  game.  Death  on  my  soul,  I  play  it  out 
wherever  I  go  !  " 

He  changed  his  posture  to  a  sitting  one,  crying  with  a  tri- 
umphant air  : 

^'  Here  I  am  !  See  me  !  Shaken  out  of  destiny's  dice- 
box  into  the  company  of  a  mere  smuggler  ; — shut  up  with 
a  poor  little  contraband  trader,  whose  papers  are  wrong, 
and  whom  the  police  lay  hold  of  besides,  for  placing  his  boat 
(as  a  means  of  getting  beyond  the  frontier)  at  the  disposition 
of  other  little  people  whose  papers  are  wrong  ;  and  he 
instinctively  recognizes  my  position,  even  by  this  light  and 
in  this  place.  It's  well  done  !  By  heaven!  I  win,  how- 
ever the  game  goes." 

Again  his  mustache  went  up,  and  his  nose  came  down. 

"  What's  the  hour  now  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  dry  hot  pallor 
upon  him,  rather  difficult  of  association  with  merriment. 

"  A  little  half-hour  after  mid-day." 

"  Good  !  The  president  will  have  a  gentleman  before 
him  soon.  Come  !  Shall  I  tell  you  on  what  accusation  ? 
It  must  be  now  or  never,  for  I  shall  not  return  here.  Either 
I  shall  go  free,  or  I  shall  go  to  be  made  ready  for  shaving. 
You  know  where  they  keep  the  razor." 

Signor  Cavalletto  took  his  cigarette  from  between  his 
parted  lips,  and  showed  more  momentary  discomfiture  than 
might  have  been  expected. 

''  I  am  a" — Monsieur  Rigaud  stood  up  to  say  it — ^*  I  am 
a  cosmopolitan  gentleman.  I  own  no  particular  country. 
My  father  was  Swiss — Canton  de  Vaud.  My  mother  was 
French  by  blood,  English  by  birth.  I  myself  was  born  in 
Belgium.     I  am  a  citizen  of  the  world." 

His  theatrical  air,  as  he   stood  with  one  arm  on  his  hip 


i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

within  the  folds  of  his  cloak,  together  with  his  manner  of 
disregarding  his  companion  and  addressing  the  opposite 
wall  instead,  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  was  rehearsing  for 
the  president,  whose  examination  he  was  shortly  to  undergo, 
rather  than  troubling  himself  merely  to  enlighten  so  small 
a  person  as  John  Baptist  Cavalletto. 

*'  Call  me  five-and-thirty  years  of  age.  I  have  seen  the 
world.  I  have  lived  here,  and  lived  there,  and  lived  like  a 
gentleman  everywhere.  I  have  been  treated  and  respected 
as  a  gentleman  universally.  If  you  try  to  prejudice  me,  by 
making  out  that  I  have  lived  by  my  wits — how  do  your  law- 
yers live — your  politicians — your  intriguers — your  men  of 
the  Exchange  ? " 

He  kept  his  small  smooth  hand  in  constant  requisition,  as 
if  it  were  a  witness  to  his  gentility  that  had  often  done  him 
good  service  before. 

'*  Two  years  ago  I  came  to  Marseilles.  I  admit  that  I 
was  poor  ;  I  had  been  ill.  When  your  lawyers,  your  politi- 
cians, your  intriguers,  your  men  of  the  exchange  fall  ill,  and 
have  not  scraped  money  together,  they  become  poor.  I  put 
up  at  the  Cross  of  Gold — kept  then  by  Monsieur  Henri  Bar- 
ronneau — sixty-five  at  least,  and  in  a  failing  state  of  health. 
I  had  lived  in  the  house  some  four  months,  when  Monsieur 
Henri  Barronneau  had  the  misfortune  to  die  ; — at  any  rate, 
not  a  rare  misfortune,  that.  It  happens  without  any  aid  of 
mine,  pretty  often." 

John  Baptist  having  smoked  his  cigarette  down  to  his 
finger's  ends.  Monsieur  Rigaud  had  the  magnanimity  to 
throw  him  another.  He  lighted  the  second  at  the  ashes  of 
the  first,  and  smoked  on,  looking  sideways  at  his  companion, 
who,  pre-occupied  with  his  own  case,  hardly  looked  at  him. 

**  Monsieur  Barronneau  left  a  widow.  She  was  two-and 
twenty.  She  had  gained  a  reputation  for  beauty,  and  (which 
is  often  another  thing)  was  beautiful.  I  continued  to  live  at 
the  Cross  of  Gold.  I  married  Madame  Barronneau.  It  is 
not  for  me  to  say  whether  there  was  any  great  disparity  in 
such  a  match.  Here  I  stand,  with  the  contamination  of  a  jail 
upon  me;  but  it  is  possible  that  you  may  think  me  better 
suited  to  her  than  her  former  husband  was." 

He  had  a  certain  air  of  being  a  handsome  man — which  he 
was  not  ;  and  a  certain  air  of  being  a  well-bred  man — which 
he  was  not.  It  was  mere  swagger  and  challenge;  but  in  this 
particular,  as  in  many  others,  blustering  assertion  goes  for 
proof,  half  over  the  world, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  19 

"  Be  it  as  it  may,  Madame  Barronneau  approved  of  me. 
That  is  not  to  prejudice  me,  I  hope  ?" 

His  eye  happening  to  light  upon  John  Baptist  with  this 
inquiry,  that  little  man  briskly  shook  his  head  in  the  nega- 
tive, and  repeated  in  an  argumentative  tone  under  his  breath, 
altro,  altro,  altro,  altro — an  infinite  number  of  times. 

"  Now  came  the  difficulties  of  our  position.  I  am  proud. 
I  say  nothing  in  defense  of  pride,  but  I  am  proud.  It  is 
also  my  character  to  govern.  I  can't  submit.  I  must  gov- 
ern. Unfortunately,  the  property  of  Madame  Rigaud  was 
settled  upon  herself.  Such  was  the  insane  act  of  her  late 
husband.  More  unfortunately  still,  she  had  relations.  When 
a  wife's  relations  interpose  against  a  husband  who  is  a  gen- 
tleman, who  is  proud,  and  who  must  govern,  the  conse- 
quences are  inimical  to  peace.  There  was  yet  another  source 
of  difference  between  us.  Madame  Rigaud  was  unfortun- 
ately a  little  vulgar.  I  sought  to  improve  her  manners  and 
ameliorate  her  general  tone  ;  she  (supported  in  this  like- 
wise by  her  relations)  resented  my  endeavors.  Quarrels  be- 
gan to  arise  between  us;  and  propagated  and  exaggerated 
by  the  slanders  of  the  relations  of  Madame  Rigaud,  to 
become  notorious  to  the  neighbors.  It  has  been  said  that  I 
treated  Madame  Rigaud  with  cruelty,  i  may  have  been 
seen  to  slap  her  face — nothing  more.  I  have  a  light  hand, 
and  if  I  have  been  seen  apparently  to  conect  Madame  Rig- 
aud in  that  manner,  I  have  done  it  almost  playfully." 

If  the  playfulness  of  Monsieur  Rigaud  were  at  all  ex- 
pressed by  his  smile  at  this  point,  the  relations  of  Madame 
Rigaud  might  have  said  that  they  would  have  much  preferred 
his  correcting  that  unfortunate  woman  seriously. 

*'  I  am  sensitive  and  brave.  I  do  not  advance  it  as  a 
merit  to  be  sensitive  and  brave,  but  it  is  my  character.  If 
the  male  relations  of  Madame  Rigaud  had  put  themselves 
forward  openly,  I  should  have  known  how  to  deal  with  them. 
They  knew  that,  and  their  machinations  were  conducted  in 
secret  ;  consequently,  Madame  Rigaud  and  I  were  brought 
into  frequent  and  unfortunate  collision.  Even  when  I 
wanted  any  little,  sum  of  money  for  my  personal  expenses,  I 
could  not  obtain  it  without  collision — and  I,  too,  a  man 
whose  character  is  to  govern  !  One  night,  Madame  Rigaud 
and  myself  were  walking  amicably — I  may  say  like  lovers — 
on  a  height  overhanging  the  sea.  An  evil  star  occasioned 
Madame  Rigaud  to  advert  to  her  relations  ;  I  reasoned  with 
her  on  that  subject,  and  remonstrated  on  the  want  of  duty 


20  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  devotion  manifested  in  her  allowing  herself  to  be  in- 
fluenced  by  their  jealous  animosity  toward  her  husband. 
Madame  Rigaud  retorted  ;  I  retorted  ;  Madame  Rigaud 
grew  warm  ;  I  grew  warm,  and  provoked  her.  I  admit  it. 
Frankness  is  a  part  of  my  character.  At  length,  Madame 
Rigaud,  in  an  access  of  fury  that  1  must  ever  deplore,  threw 
herself  upon  me  with  screams  of  passion  (no  doubt  those 
that  were  overheard  at  some  distance),  tore  my  clothes,  tore 
my  hair,  lacerated  my  hands,  trampled  and  trod  the  dust, 
and  finally  leaped  over,  dashing  herself  to  death  upon  the 
rocks  below.  Such  is  the  train  of  incidents  which  malice 
has  perverted  into  my  endeavoring  to  force  from  Madame 
Rigaud  a  relinquishment  of  her  rights  ;  and,  on  her  persist- 
ence in  a  refusal  to  make  the  confession  I  required,  strug- 
gling with  her — assassinating  her  !  " 

He  stepped  aside  to  the  ledge  where  the  vine-leaves  yet 
lay  strewn  about,  collected  two  or  three,  and  stood  wiping 
his  hands  upon  them,  with  his  back  to  the  light. 

*'  Well,"  he  demanded  after  a  silence,  **  have  you  nothing 
to  say  to  all  that  ?  " 

'*  It's  ugly,"  returned  the  little  man,  w^ho  had  risen,  and 
was  brightening  his  knife  upon  his  shoe,  as  he  leaned  an 
arm  against  the  wall. 

**  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

John  Baptist  polished  his  knife  in  silence. 

*'  Do  you  mean  that  I  have  not  represented  the  case  cor- 
rectly ?  " 

^'  Al-tro  !  "  returned  John  Baptist.  The  word  was  an 
apology  now,  and  stood  for  "  Oh,  by  no  means  !  " 

''  What  then  ?  " 

"  Presidents  and  tribunals  are  so  prejudiced." 

"  Well,"  cried  the  other,  uneasily  flinging  the  end  of  his 
cloak  over  his  shoulder  with  an  oath,  "  let  them  do  their 
worst  !  " 

*'  Truly  I  think  they  will,"  murmured  John  Baptist  to 
himself,  as  he  bent  his  head  to  put  his  knife  in  his  sash. 

Nothing  more  was  said  on  either  side,  though  they  both 
began  w^alking  to  and  fro,  and  necessarily  crossed  at  every 
turn.  Monsieur  Rigaud  sometimes  half  stopped,  as  if  he 
were  going  to  put  his  case  in  a  new  light,  or  make  some  irate 
remonstance  ;  but  Signor  Cavalletto  continuing  to  go  slowly 
to  and  fro  at  a  grotesque  kind  of  jog-trot  pace,  with  his  eyes 
turned  downward,  nothing  came  of  these  inclinings. 

By  and  by  the  noise  of  the  key  in  the  lock  arrested  them 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  21 

both.  The  sound  of  voices  succeeded,  and  the  tread  of  feet. 
The  door  clashed,  the  voices  and  the  feet  came  on,  and  the 
prison-keeper  slowly  ascended  the  stairs,  followed  by  a  guard 
of  soldiers. 

"  Now,  Monsieur  Rigaud,"  said  he,  pausing  for  a  moment 
at  the  grate,  with  his  keys  in  his  hand,  *'  have  the  goodness 
to  come  out." 

**  I  am  to  depart  in  state,  I  see  ?  " 

'*Why,  unless  you  did,"  returned  the  jailer,  ''you  might 
depart  in  so  many  pieces  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  get  you 
together  again.  There's  a  crowd,  Monsieur  Rigaud,  and  it 
doesn't  love  you." 

He  passed  on  out  of  sight,  and  unlocked  and  unbarred  a 
low  door  in  the  corner  of  the  chamber.  '*  Now,"  said  he,  as 
he  opened  it  and  appeared  within,  ''come  out." 

There  is  no  sort  of  whiteness  in  aJl  the  hues  under  the 
sun  at  all  like  the  whiteness  of  Monsieur  Rigaud's  face  as  it 
was  then.  Neither  is  there  any  expression  of  the  human 
countenance  at  all  like  that  expression,  in  every  little  line 
of  which  the  frightened  heart  is  seen  to  beat.  Both  are 
conventionaJy  compared  with  death  ;  but  the  difference  is 
the  whole  deep  gulf  between  the  struggle  done,  and  the  fight 
at  its  most  desperate  extremity. 

He  lighted  another  of  his  paper  cigars  at  his  companion's  ; 
put  it  tightly  between  his  teeth  ;  covered  his  head  with  a  soft 
slouched  hat  ;  threw  the  end  of  his  cloak  over  his  shoulder 
again  ;  and  walked  out  on  the  side  gallery  on  which  the 
door  opened,  without  taking  any  further  notice  of  Signor 
Cavalletto.  As  to  that  little  man  himself,  his  whole  atten- 
tion had  become  absorbed  in  getting  near  the  door,  and  look- 
ing out  at  it.  Precisely  as  a  beast  might  approach  the 
opened  gate  of  his  den  and  eye  the  freedom  beyond,  he 
passed  those  few  moments  in  watching  and  peering,  until 
the  door  was  closed  upon  him. 

There  was  an  officer  in  command  of  the  soldiers  ;  a  stout, 
serviceable,  profoundly  calm  man,  with  his  drawn  sword  in 
his  hand,  smoking  a  cigar.  He  very  briefly  directed  the 
placing  of  Monsieur  Riguad  in  the  midst  of  the  party,  put 
himself  with  consummate  indifference  at  their  head,  gave  the 
word  "  march  !  "  and  so  they  all  went  jingling  down  the 
staircase.  The  door  clashed — the  key  turned — and  a  ray  of 
unusual  light,  and  a  breath  of  unusual  air,  seemed  to  have 
passed  through  the  jail,  vanishing  in  a  tiny  wreath  of  smoke 
trom  the  cigar. 


22  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Still,  in  his  captivity,  like  a  lower  animal — like  some  im 
patient  ape,  or  roused  bear  of  the  smaller  species — the^ 
prisoner,  now  left  solitary,  had  jumped  upon  the  ledge,  to 
lose  no  glimpse  of  this  departure.  As  yet  he  stood  clasping 
the  grate  with  both  hands,  an  uproar  broke  upon  his  hearing; 
yells,  shrieks,  oaths,  threats,  execrations,  all  comprehended 
in  it,  though  (as  in  a  storm)  nothing  but  a  raging  swell  of 
sound  distinctly  heard. 

Excited  into  a  still  greater  resemblance  to  a  caged  wild 
animal  by  his  anxiety  to  know  more,  the  prisoner  leaped 
nimbly  down,  ran  round  the  chamber,  leaped  nimbly  up 
again,  clasped  the  grate  and  tried  to  shake  it,  leaped  down 
and  ran,  leaped  up  and  listened,  and  never  rested  until  the 
noise,  becoming  more  and  more  distant,  had  died  away. 
How  many  better  prisoners  have  worn  their  noble  hearts  out 
so  ;  no  man  thinking  of  it  ;  not  even  the  beloved  of  their 
souls  realizing  it  ;  great  kings  and  governors,  who  had  made 
them  captive,  careering  in  the  sunlight  jauntily,  and  men 
cheering  them  on.  Even  the  said  great  personages  dying 
in  bed,  making  exemplary  ends  and  sounding  speeches  ;  and 
polite  history,  more  servile  than  their  instruments,  embalm- 
ing them  ! 

At  last,  John  Baptist,  now  able  to  choose  his  own  spot 
within  the  compass  of  those  walls,  for  the  exercise  of  his 
faculty  of  going  to  sleep  when  he  would,  lay  down  upon  the 
bench,  with  his  face  turned  over  on  his  crossed  arms,  and 
slumbered.  In  his  submission,  in  his  lightness,  in  his  good- 
humor,  in  his  short-lived  passion,  in  his  easy  contentment 
with  hard  bread  and  hard  stones,  in  his  ready  sleep,  in  his 
fits  and  starts  altogether,  a  true  son  of  the  land  that  gave  him 
bjrth. 

The  wide  stare  stared  itself  out  for  one  while  ;  the  sun 
went  down  in  a  red,  green,  golden  glory  ;  the  stars  came  out 
in  the  heavens,  and  the  fire-flies  mimicked  them  in  the  lower 
air,  as  men  may  feebly  imitate  the  goodness  of  a  better  order 
of  beings  ;  the  long  dusty  roads  and  the  interminable  plains 
were  in  repose — and  so  deep  a  hush  v/as  on  the  sea,  that  it 
scarcely  whispered  of  the  time  when  it  shall  give  up  its 
dead. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  23 

CHAPTER   IL 

FELLOW- TRAVELERS. 

"  No  more  of  yesterday's  howling,  over  yonder,  to-day, 
sir  ;  is  there  ?  '* 

**  I  have  heard  none.'* 

"  Then  you  may  be  sure  there  is  none.  When  these 
people  howl,  they  howl  to  be  heard." 

**  Most  people  do,  I  suppose.'* 

/*  Ah  !  but  these  people  are  always  howling.  Never  happy 
otherwise." 

*'  Do  you  mean  the  Marseilles  people  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  French  people.  They're  always  at  it.  As 
to  Marseilles,  we  know  what  Marseilles  is.  It  sent  the  most 
insurrectionary  tune  into  the  world  that  was  ever  com- 
posed. It  couldn't  exist  without  allonging  and  marshong- 
ing  to  something  or  other — victory  or  death,  or  blazes,  or 
something." 

The  speaker,  with  a  whimsical  good-humor  on  him  all  the 
time,  looked  over  the  parapet-wall  with  the  greatest  dispar- 
agement of  Marseilles  ;  and  taking  up  a  determined  position 
by  putting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  rattling  his  money 
at  it,  apostrophized  it  with  a  short  laugh. 

*'  Allong  and  marshong,  indeed.  It  would  be  more  credit- 
able to  you,  I  think,  to  let  other  people  allong  and  marshong 
about  their  lawful  business,  instead  of  shutting  'em  up  in 
quarantine  !  " 

"  Tiresome  enough,"  said  the  other.  "  But  we  shall  be 
out  to-day." 

"  Out  to-day  !  "  repeated  the  first.  "  It's  almost  an  aggra- 
vation of  the  enormity,  that  we  shall  be  out  to-day.  Out  ! 
What  have  we  ever  been  in  for  ?  " 

^*  For  no  very  strong  reason,  I  must  say.  But  as  we 
come  from  the  East,  and  as  the  East  is  the  country  of  the 
plague — " 

^'  The  plague  !  "  repeated  the  other.  "  That's  my  griev- 
ance. I  have  had  the  plague  continually,  ever  since  I  have 
been  here.  I  am  like  a  sane  man  shut  up  in  a  mad-house;  I 
can't  stand  the  suspicion  of  the  thing.  I  came  here  as  well 
as  ever  I  was  in  my  life  ;  but  to  suspect  me  of  the  plague  is 
to  give  me  the  plague.  And  I  have  had  it — and  I  have  got 
it." 


24  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  You  bear  it  very  well,  Mr.  Meagles/*  said  the  second 
speaker,  smiling. 

''  No.  If  you  knew  the  real  state  of  the  case,  that's  the 
last  obsevation  you  would  think  of  making.  I  have  been 
waking  up,  night  after  night,  and  saying  now  I  have  got  it, 
710W  it  has  developed  itself,  now  I  am  in  for  it,  now  these 
fellows  are  making  out  their  case  for  their  precautions.  Why, 
I'd  as  soon  have  a  spit  put  through  me,  and  be  struck  upon 
a  card  in  a  collection  of  beetles,  as  lead  the  life  I  have  been 
leading  here." 

**  Well,  Mr.  Meagles,  say  no  more  about  it,  now  it's  over," 
urged  a  cheerful  feminine  voice. 

'^  Over  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Meagles,  who  appeared  (though 
without  any  ill-nature)  to  be  in  that  peculiar  state  of  mind  in 
which  the  last  word  spoken  by  any  body  else  is  a  new  injury. 
"  Over  !  and  why  should  I  say  no  more  about  it  because  it's 
over  t  " 

It  was  Mrs.  Meagles  who  had  spoken  to  Mr.  Meagles  ; 
and  Mrs.  Meagles  v/as,  like  Mr.  Meagles,  comely  and  healthy, 
with  a  pleasant  English  face  which  had  been  looking  at 
homely  things  for  five-and-fifty  years  or  more,  and  shone 
with  a  bright  reflection  of  them. 

"  There  !  Never  mind,  father,  never  mind  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Meagles.     "  For  goodness  sake  content  yourself  with  Pet." 

^^With  Pet?"  repeated  Mr.  Meagles  in  his  injured  vein. 
Pet,  however,  being  close  behind  him,  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  Mr.  Meagles  immediately  forgave  Marseilles 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

Pet  was  about  twenty.  A  fair  girl  with  rich  brown  hair 
hanging  free  in  natural  ringlets.  A  lovely  girl,  with  a  frank 
face,  and  wonderful  eyes  ;  so  large,  so  soft,  so  bright,  set  to 
such  perfection  in  her  kind  good  head.  She  was  round  and 
fresh  and  dimpled  and  spoiled,  and  there  was  in  Pet  an  air  of 
timidity  and  dependence  which  was  the  best  weakness  in  the 
world,  and  gave  her  the  only  crowning  charm  a  girl  so  pretty 
and  pleasant  could  have  been  without. 

^'  Now,  I  ask  you,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  in  the  blandest  con- 
fidence, falling  back  a  step  himself,  and  handing  his  daughter 
a  step  forward  to  illustrate  his  question:  "  I  ask  you  simply, 
as  between  man  and  man,  you  know,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
such  damned  nonsense  as  putting  Pet  in  quarantine  ? " 

**  It  has  had  the  result  of  making  even  quarantine  enjoya- 
ble." 

*' Come  !  "  said    Mr.    Meagles,   *' that's  something  to  be 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  25 

sure.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  that  remark.  Now  Pet,  my 
darling,  you  had  better  go  along  with  mother  and  get  ready 
for  the  boat.  The  officer  of  health,  and  a  variety  of  hum- 
bugs, in  cocked  hats,  are  coming  off  to  let  us  out  of  this  at 
last  :  and  all  we  jail-birds  are  to  breakfast  together  in  some- 
thing approaching  to  a  Christian  style  again,  before  we  take 
wing  for  our  different  destinations.  Tattycoram,  stick  you 
close  to  your  young  mistress." 

He  spoke  to  a  handsome  girl  with  lustrous  dark  hair  and 
eyes,  and  very  neatly  dressed,  who  replied  with  a  half  cour- 
tesy as  she  passed  off  in  the  train  of  Mrs.  Meagles  and  Pet. 
They  crossed  the  bare  scorched  terrace,  all  three  together, 
and  disappeared  through  a  staring  white  archway.  Mr. 
Meagles' s  companion,  a  grave  dark  man  of  forty,  still  stood 
looking  toward  this  archway  after  they  were  gone  ;  until 
Mr.  Meagles  tapped  him  on  the  arm. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he  starting. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.   Meagles. 

They  took  one  silent  turn  backward  and  forward  in  the 
shade  of  the  wall,  getting,  at  the  height  on  which  the  quar- 
antine barracks  are  placed,  what  cool  refreshment  of  sea- 
breeze  there  was,  at  seven  in  the  morning.  Mr.  Meagles"s 
companion  resumed  the  conversation. 

^^  May  I  ask  you,"  he  said,  "  what  is  the  name  of — " 

"  Tattycoram  ?  "  Mr.  Meagles  struck  in.  "  I  have  not 
the  least  idea." 

*'  I  thought,*'  said  the  other,  "  that — " 

*^  Tattycoram  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Meagles  again. 

"  Thank  you — that  Tattycoram  was  a  name  ;  and  I  have 
several  times  wondered  at  the  oddity  of  it." 

*'Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "Mrs.  Meagles  and 
myself  are,  you  see,  practical  people." 

"  That,  you  have  frequently  mentioned  in  the  course  of 
the  agreeable  and  interesting  conversations  we  have  had  to- 
gether, walking  up  and  down  on  these  stones,"  said  the 
other,  with  a  half  smile  breaking  through  the  gravity  of  his 
dark  face. 

"  Practical  people.  So  one  day,  five  or  six  years  ago  now, 
when  we  took  Pet  to  church  at  the  Foundling — you  have 
heard  of  the  Foundling  Hospital  in  London  ?  Similar  to 
the  Institution  for  the  Found  Children  in  Paris  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  it." 

"  Well  !  One  day  when  we  took  Pet  to  church  there  to 
hear  the  music — because,  as  practical  people,  it  is  the  busi- 


26  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ness  of  our  lives  to  show  her  every  thing  that  we  think  can 
please  her — mother  (my  usual  name  for  Mrs.  Meagles)  began 
to  cry  so,  that  it  was  necessary  to  take  her  out.  *  What^s 
the  matter,  mother  ? '  said  I,  when  we  had  brought  her  a 
little  round  ;  *  you  are  frightening  Pet,  my  dear.'  '  Yes,  I 
know  that,  father,'  says  mother,  *  but  I  think  it's  through  my 
loving  her  so  much,  that  it  ever  came  into  my  head.'  ^  That 
ever  what  came  into  your  head,  mother  ?  *  *  Oh  dear,  dear  !' 
cried  mother,  breaking  out  again,  *  when  I  saw  all  those 
children  ranged  tier  above  tier,  and  appealing  from  the 
father  none  of  them  has  ever  known  on  earth,  to  the  great 
Father  of  us  all  in  heaven,  I  thought,  does  any  wretched 
mother  ever  come  here,  and  look  among  those  young  faces, 
wondering  which  is  the  poor  child  she  brought  into  this 
forlorn  world,  never  through  all  its  life  to  know  her  love,  her 
kiss,  her  face,  her  voice,  even  her  name  !  *  Now  that  was 
practical  in  mother,  and  I  told  her  so.  I  said,  *  Mother, 
that's  what  I  call  practical  in  you,  my  dear.*  '* 

The  other,  not  unmoved,  assented. 

^^  So  I  said  next  day  :  now,  mother,  I  have  a  proposition 
to  make  that  I  think  you'll  approve  of.  Let  us  take  one  of 
those  same  children  to  be  a  little  maid  to  Pet.  We  are 
practical  people.  So  if  we  should  find  her  temper  a  little 
defective,  or  any  of  her  ways  a  little  wide  of  ours,  we  shall 
know  what  we  have  to  take  into  account.  We  shall  know 
what  an  immense  deduction  must  be  made  from  all  the 
influences  and  experiences  that  have  formed  us — no  parents, 
no  child-brother  or  sister,  no  individuality  of  home,  no  glass 
slipper,  or  fairy  godmother.  And  that's  the  way  we  came 
by  Tattycoram." 

"  And  the  name  itself — " 

"  By  George  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  I  was  forgetting  the 
name  itself.  Why  she  was  called  in  the  institution  Harriet 
Beadle — an  arbitrary  name,  of  course.  Now,  Harriet  we 
changed  into  Hatty,  and  then  into  Tatty,  because,  as  practi- 
cal people,  we  thought  even  a  playful  name  might  be  a  new 
thing  to  her,  and  might  have  a  softening  and  affectionate 
kind  of  effect,  don't  you  see  ?  As  to  Beadle,  that  I  needn't 
say  was  wholly  out  of  the  question.  If  there  is  any  thing  that 
is  not  to  be  tolerated  on  any  terms,  any  thing  that  is  a  type 
of  Jack-in-offlce  insolence  and  absurdity,  any  thing  that 
represents  in  coats,  waistcoats,  and  big  sticks,  our  English 
holding-on  by  nonsense,  after  every  one  has  found  it  out,  it 
is  a  beadle.     You  haven't  seen  a  beadle  lately  ?  '* 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  27 

"  As  an  Englishman,  who  has  been  more  than  twenty 
years  in  China,  no." 

'^  Then,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  laying  his  forefinger  on  his 
companion's  breast  with  great  animation,  *'  don't  you  see  a 
beadle,  now,  if  you  can  help  it.  Whenever  I  see  a  beadle  in 
full  fig,  coming  down  a  street  on  a  Sunday  at  the  head  of  a 
charity  school,  I  am  obliged  to  turn  and  run  away,  or  I 
should  hit  him.  The  name  of  Beadle  being  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, and  the  originator  of  the  institution  for  these  poor 
foundlings  having  been  a  blessed  creature  of  the  name  of 
Coram,  we  gave  that  name  to  Pet's  little  maid.  At  one  time 
she  was  Tatty,  and  at  one  time  she  was  Coram,  until  we  got 
into  a  way  of  mixing  the  two  names  together,  and  now  she 
is  always  Tattycoram." 

**Your  daughter,"  said  the  other,  when  they  had  taken 
another  silent  turn  to  and  fro,  and  after  standing  for  a 
moment  at  the  wall  glancing  down  at  the  sea,  had  resumed 
their  walk,  ''  is  your  only  child,  I  know,  Mr.  Meagles.  May 
I  ask  you— in  no  impertinent  curiosity,  but  because  I  have 
had  so  much  pleasure  in  your  society,  may  never  in  this 
labyrinth  of  a  world  exchange  a  quiet  word  with  you  again, 
and  wish  to  preserve  an  accurate  remembrance  of  you  and 
yours — may  I  ask  you,  if  I  have  not  gathered  from  your 
good  wife  that  you  have  had  other  children  ? " 

"  No.  No,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  *'  Not  exactly  other  chil- 
dren.    One  other  child." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  inadvertently  touched  upon  a  tender 
theme." 

*^  Never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  If  I  am  grave  about 
it,  I  am  not  at  all  sorrowful.  It  quiets  me  for  a  moment, 
but  does  not  make  me  unhappy.  Pet  had  a  twin  sister,  who 
died  when  we  could  just  see  her  eyes — exactly  like  Pet's — 
above  the  table,  at  she  stood  on  tiptoe  holding  by  it." 

*^  Ah  !  indeed,  indeed  !  " 

*^  Yes,  and  being  practical  people,  a  result  has  gradually 
sprung  up  in  the  minds  of  Mrs.  Meagles  and  myself  which 
perhaps  you  may — or  perhaps  you  may  not — understand. 
Pet  and  her  baby  sister  were  so  exactly  alike,  and  so  com- 
pletely one,  that  in  our  thoughts  we  have  never  been  able  to 
separate  them  since.  It  would  be  of  no  use  to  tell  us  that 
our  dead  child  was  a  mere  infant.  We  have  changed  that 
child  according  to  the  changes  in  the  child  spared  to  us,  and 
always  with  us.  As  Pet  has  grown,  that  child  has  grown  ; 
as  Pet  has  become  more  sensible  and  womanly,  her  sister  ha§ 


28  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

become  more  sensible  and  womanly,  by  just  the  same  degrees. 
It  would  be  as  hard  to  convince  me  that  if  I  was  to  pass  into 
the  other  world  to-morrow,  I  should  not,  through  the 
mercy  of  God,  be  received  there  by  a  daughter,  just  like 
Pet^  as  to  persuade  me  that  Pet  herself  is  not  a  reality  at  my 
side." 

^'  I  understand  you,"  said  the  other,  gently,    v 

"As  to  her,"  pursued  her  father,  "the  sudden  loss  of  her 
little  picture  and  playfellow,  and  her  early  association  with 
that  mystery  in  which  we  all  have  our  equal  share,  but  which 
is  not  often  so  forcibly  presented  to  a  child,' has  necessarily 
had  some  influence  on  her  character.  Then,  her  mother  and 
I  were  not  young  when  we  married,  and  Pet  has  always  had 
a  sort  of  grown-up  life  with  us,  though  we  have  tried  to  adapt 
ourselves  to  her.  We  have  been  advised  more  than  once 
when  she  has  been  a  little  ailing,  to  change  climate  and  air 
for  her  as  often  as  we  could — especially  at  about  this  time  of 
her  life — and  to  keep  her  amused.  So,  as  1  have  no  need  to 
stick  at  a  bank-desk  now  (though  I  have  been  poor  enough 
in  my  time,  I  assure  you,  or  I  should  have  married  Mrs. 
Meagles  long  before),  we  go  trotting  about  the  world.  This 
is  how  you  found  us  staring  at  the  Nile,  and  the  Pyramids, 
and  the  Sphinxes,  and  the  Desert,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ;  and 
this  is  how  Tattycoram  will  be  a  greater  traveler  in  course 
of  time  than  Captain  Cook." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  other,  "  very  heartily,  for  your  con- 
fidence." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles,  "  I  am  sure 
you  are  quite  welcome.  And  now,  Mr.  Clennam,  perhaps  I 
may  ask  you,  whether  you  have  yet  come  to  a  decision  where 
to  go  next  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  no.  I  am  such  a  waif  and  stray  everywhere, 
that  I  am  liable  to  be  drifted  where  any  current  may  set." 

"  It's  extraordinary  to  me — if  you'll  excuse  my  freedom  in 
saying  so — that  you  don't  go  straight  to  London,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  in  the  tone  of  a  confidential  adviser. 

"  Perhaps  I  shall." 

"Ay  !    But  I  mean  with  a  will."  ^ 

"  I  have  no  will.  That  is  to  say,"  he  colored  a  little, 
"  next  to  none  that  I  can  put  in  action  now.  Trained  by 
main  force  ;  broken,  not  bent  ;  heavily  ironed  with  an 
object  on  which  I  was  never  consulted  and  which  was  never 
mine  ;  shipped  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  world  before  I 
was  of  age,  and  exiled  there  until  my  father's  death  there,  a 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  29 

year  ago  ;  always  grinding  in  a  mill  I  always  hated  ;  what  is 
to  be  expected  from  me  in  middle  life  ?  Will,  purpose,  hope? 
All  those  lights  were  extinguished  before  I  could  sound  the 
words." 

"  Light  *em  up  again  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

"  Ah  !  Easily  said.  I  am  the  son,  Mr.  Meagles,  of  a  hard 
father  and  mother.  I  am  the  only  child  of  parents  who 
weighed,  measured,  and  priced  every  thing  ;  for  whom  what 
could  not  be  weighed,  measured,  and  priced,  had  no  exist- 
ence. Strict  people,  as  the  phrase  is,  professors  of  a  stern 
religion,  their  very  religion  was  a  gloomy  sacrifice  of  tastes 
and  sympathies  that  were  never  their  own,  offered  up  as  a 
part  of  a  bargain  for  the  security  of  their  possessions. 
Austere  faces,  inexorable  discipline,  penance  in  this  world 
and  terror  in  the  next — nothing  graceful  or  gentle  anywhere, 
and  the  void  in  my  cowed  heart  everywhere — this  was  my 
childhood,  if  I  may  so  misuse  the  word  as  to  apply  it  to  such 
a  beginning  of  life.'* 

*'  Really  though  ? "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  made  very  uncom- 
fortable by  the  picture  offered  to  his  imagination.  "  That 
was  a  tough  commencement.  But  come  !  You  must  now 
study,  and  profit  by  all  that  lies  beyond  it,  like  a  practical 
man." 

"  If  the  people  who  are  usually  called  practical,  were  prac- 
tical in  your  direction — " 

"  Why,  so  they  are  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

"  Are  they  indeed  ?  ** 

*'  Well,  I  suppose  so,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles,  thinking 
about  it.  **  Eh  ?  One  can  but  be  practical,  and  Mrs.  Meagles 
and  myself  are  nothing  else." 

**  My  unknown  course  is  easier  and  more  hopeful  than  I 
had  expected  to  find  it  then,"  said  Clennam,  shaking  his 
head  with  his  grave  smile.  **  Enough  of  me.  Here  is  the 
boat." 

The  boat  was  filled  with  cocked  hats  to  which  Mr.  Mea- 
gles entertained  a  national  objection  :  and  the  wearers  of 
those  cocked  hats  landed  and  came  up  the  steps,  and  all  the 
impounded  travelers  congregated  together.  There  was  then 
a  mighty  production  of  papers  on  the  part  of  the  cocked 
hats,  and  a  calling  over  of  names,  and  great  work  of 
signing,  sealing,  stamping,  inking,  and  sanding,  with  exceed- 
ingly blurred,  gritty,  and  undecipherable  results.  Finally, 
every  thing  was. done  according  to  rule,  and  the  travelers 
were  at  liberty  to  depart  whithersoever  they  would. 


30  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

They  made  little  account  of  stare  and  glare,  in  the  new 
pleasure  of  recovering  their  freedom,  but  flitted  across  the 
harbor  in  gay  boats,  and  reassembled  at  a  great  hotel,  whence 
the  sun  was  excluded  by  closed  lattices,  and  where  bare 
paved  floors,  lofty  ceilings,  and  resounding  corridors,  tem- 
pered the  intense  heat.  There,  a  great  table  in  a  great  room 
was  soon  profusely  covered  with  a  superb  repast  ;  and  the 
quarantine  quarters  became  bare  indeed,  remembered  among 
dainty  dishes,  southern  fruits,  cooled  wines,  flowers  from 
Genoa,  snow  from  the  mountain  tops,  and  all  the  colors  of 
the  rainbow  flashing  in  the  mirrors. 

"But  I  bear  those  monotonous  walls  no  ill-will  now," 
said  Mr.  Meagles.  ^'  One  always  begins  to  forgive  a  place  as 
soon  as  it's  left  behind  ;  I  dare  say  a  prisoner  begins  to 
relent  toward  his  prison,  after  he  is  let  out." 

They  were  about  thirty  in  company,  and  all  talking ;  but 
necessarily  in  groups.  Father  and  mother  Meagles  sat  with 
their  daughter  between  them,  the  last  three  on  one  side  of 
the  table  :  on  the  opposite  side  sat  Mr.  Clennam  ;  a  tall 
French  gentleman  with  raven  hair  and  beard,  of  a  swart  and 
terrible,  not  to  say  genteelly  diabolical  aspect,  but  who  had 
shown  himself  the  mildest  of  men  ;  and  a  handsome  young 
Englishwoman,  traveling  quite  alone,  who  had  a  proud  ob- 
servant face,  and  had  either  withdrawn  herself  from  the  rest 
or  been  avoided  by  the  rest — nobody,  herself  excepted  per- 
haps, could  have  quite  decided  which.  The  rest  of  the  party 
were  of  the  usual  materials.  Travelers  on  business,  and  travel- 
ers for  pleasure  ;  officers  from  India  on  leave  ;  merchants  in 
the  Greek  and  Turkey  trades  ;  a  clerical  English  husband  in 
a  meek  strait-waistcoat,  on  a  wedding  trip  with  his  young  wife; 
a  majestic  English  mamma  and  papa,  of  the  patrician  order, 
with  a  family  of  three  growing-up  daughters,  who  were  keep- 
ing a  journal  for  the  confusion  of  their  fellow-creatures  ; 
and  a  deaf  old  English  mother  tough  in  travel,  with  a  very 
decidedly  grown-up  daughter  indeed,  which  daughter  went 
sketching  about  the  universe  in  the  expectation  of  ulti- 
mately toning  herself  off  into  the  married  state. 

The  reserved  Englishwoman  took  up  Mr.  ISIeagles  in  his 
last  remark. 

*^  Do  you  mean  that  a  prisoner  forgives  his  prison  ?  "  said 
she,  slowly  and  with  emphasis. 

"  That  was  my  speculation,  Miss  Wade.  I  don't  pretend 
to  know  positively  how  a  prisoner  might  fe^l.  I  never  was 
one  before." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  31 

"  Mademoiselle  doubts,"  said  the  French  gentleman  in 
his  own  language,  *'  it's  being  so  easy  to  forgive  ?" 

"I  do." 

Pet  had  to  translate  this  passage  to  Mr.  Meagles,  who 
never  by  any  accident  acquired  any  knowledge  whatever  of 
the  language  of  any  country  into  which  he  traveled.  **  Oh  !  " 
said  he.     "  Dear  me  !     But  that's  a  pity,  isn't  it  ?  " 

*^  That  I  am  not  credulous  ?  '*  said  Miss  Wade. 

"  Not  exactly  that.  Put  it  another  way.  That  you  can't 
believe  it  easy  to  forgive." 

"  My  experience,"  she  quietly  returned,  *^  has  been  cor- 
recting my  belief  in  many  respects,  for  some  years.  It  ib 
our  natural  progress,  I  have  heard." 

'*  Well,  well  !  But  it's  not  natural  to  bear  malice,  I  hope  ?" 
said  Mr.  Meagles,  cheerily. 

**  If  I  had  been  shut  up  in  any  place  to  pine  and  suffer,  I 
should  always  hate  that  place  and  wish  to  burn  it  down,  or 
raze  it  to  the  ground.     I  know  no  more." 

"  Strong,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Meagles  to  the  Frenchman  ;  it 
being  another  of  his  habits  to  address  individuals  of  all 
nations  in  idiomatic  English,  with  a  perfect  conviction  that 
they  were  bound  to  understand  it  somehow.  **  Rather  forci- 
ble in  our  fair  friend,  you'll  agree  with  me,  I  think  ?  " 

The  French  gentleman  courteously  replied,  **  Plait-il  ?  " 
To  which  Mr.  Meagles  returned  with  much  satisfaction, 
"  You  are  right.     My  opinion." 

The  breakfast  beginning  by  and  by  to  languish,  Mr.  Mea- 
gles made  the  company  a  speech.  It  was  short  enough  and 
sensible  enough,  considering  that  it  was  a  speech  at  all,  and 
hearty.  It  merely  went  to  the  effect  that  as  they  had  all  been 
thrown  together,  by  chance,  and  had  all  preserved  a  good 
understanding  together  and  were  now  about  to  disperse,  and 
were  not  likely  ever  to  find  themselves  all  together  again, 
what  could  they  do  better  than  bid  farewell  to  one  another, 
and  give  one  another  good-speed,  in  a  simultaneous  glass  of 
cool  champagne  all  round  the  table  ?  It  was  done,  and  with 
a  general  shaking  of  hands,  the  assembly  broke  up  forever. 

The  solitary  young  lady  all  this  time  had  said  no  more. 
She  rose  with  the  rest,  and  silently  withdrew  to  a  remote  cor- 
ner of  the  great  room,  where  she  sat  herself  on  a  couch  in  a 
window,  seeming  to  watch  the  reflection  of  the  water,  as  it 
made  a  silver  quivering  on  the  bars  of  the  lattice.  She  sat, 
turned  away  from  the  whole  length  of  the  apartment,  as  if  she 
were  lonely  of  her  own  haughty  choice.     And  yet  it  would 


32  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

have  been  as  difficult  as  ever  to  say,  positively,  whether  she 
avoided  the  rest,  or  was  avoided. 

The  shadow  in  which  she  sat,  falling  like  a  gloomy  veil 
across  her  forehead,  accorded  very  well  with  the  character  of 
her  beauty.  One  could  hardly  see  the  face,  so  still  and  scorn- 
ful, set  off  by  the  arched  dark  eyebrows,  and  the  folds  of 
dark  hair,  without  wondering  what  its  expression  would  be  if 
a  change  came  over  it.  That  it  could  soften  or  relent,  ap- 
peared next  to  impossible.  That  it  could  deepen  into  anger 
or  any  extreme  of  defiance,  and  that  it  must  change  in  that 
direction  when  it  changed  at  all,  would  have  been  its  pecu- 
liar impression  upon  most  observers.  It  was  dressed  and 
trimmed  into  no  ceremony  of  expression.  Although  not  an 
open  face,  there  was  no  pretense  in  it.  I  am  self-contained 
and  self-reliant ;  your  opinion  is  nothing  to  me  ;  I  have  no 
interest  in  you,  care  nothing  for  you,  and  see  and  hear  you 
with  indifference — this  it  said  plainly.  It  said  so  in  the  proud 
eyes,  in  the  lifted  nostril,  in  the  handsome,  but  compressed 
and  even  cruel  mouth.  Cover  either  two  of  those  channels 
of  expression,  and  the  third  would  have  said  so  still.  Mask 
them  all,  and  the  mere  turn  of  the  head  would  have  shown  an 
unsubduable  nature. 

Pet  had  moved  up  to  her  (she  had  been  the  subject  of 
remark  among  her  family  and  Mr.  Clennam,  who  were  now 
the  only  other  occupants  of  the  room),  and  was  standing  at 
her  side. 

"  Are  you  " — she  turned  her  eyes,  and  Pet  faltered — *'  ex- 
pecting any  one  to  meet  you  here,  Miss  Wade  ?  " 

**I?    No." 

"  Father  is  sending  to  the  Poste  Restante.  Shall  he  have 
the  pleasure  of  directing  the  messenger  to  ask  if  there  are 
any  letters  for  you  ?  " 

*'  I  thank  him,  out  I  know  there  can  be  none." 

"  We  are  afraid,"  said  Pet,  sitting  down  beside  her,  shyly, 
and  half  tenderly,  "  that  you  will  feel  quite  deserted  when 
we  are  all  gone." 

" Indeed  !  " 

**  Not,"  said  Pet,  apologetically  and  embarrassed  by  her 
eyes,  '*  not,  of  course,  that  we  are  any  company  to  you,  or 
that  we  have  been  able  to  be  so,  or  that  we  thought  you 
wished  it." 

"  I  have  not  intended  to  make  it  understood  that  I  did 
wish  it." 

"  No.     Of  course.     But — in   short,"    said    Pet,    timidly 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  33 

touching  her  hand  as  it  lay  impassive  on  the  sofa  between 
them,  '*  will  you  not  allow  father  to  render  you  any  slight  as- 
sistance or  service  ?     He  will  be  very  glad." 

"Very  glad,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  coming  forward  with  his 
wife  and  Clennam.  ^*  Any  thing  short  of  speaking  the  lan- 
guage, I  shall  be  delighted  to  undertake,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  she  returned,  "  but  my  arrangements 
are  made,  and  I  prefer  to  go  my  own  way  in  my  own  manner." 

^^  Do  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  to  himself,  as  he  surveyed 
her  with  a  puzzled  look.  '*  Well !  There's  character  in  that, 
too." 

"  I  am  not  much  used  to  the  society  of  young  ladies,  and 
I  am  afraid  I  may  not  show  my  appreciation  of  it  as  others 
might.     A  pleasant  journey  to  you.     Good-by  !  " 

She  would  not  have  put  out  her  hand,  it  seemed,  bat  that 
Mr.  Meagles  put  out  his  so  straight  before  her,  that  she 
could  not  pass  it.  She  put  hers  in  it,  and  it  lay  there  just  as 
it  had  lain  up^on  the  couch. 

*'  Good-by  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles.  '*  This  is  the  last  good- 
by  upon  the  list,  for  mother  and  I  have  just  said  it  to  Mr. 
Clennam  here,  and  he  only  waits  to  say  it  to  Pet.  Good-by  ! 
We  may  never  meet  again." 

"  In  our  course  through  life  we  shall  meet  the  people  who 
are  coming  to  meet  us^  from  many  strange  places  and  by 
many  strange  roads,"  was  th^  composed  reply;  "and  what  it 
is  set  to  us  to  do  to  them,  and  what  it  is  set  to  them  to  do  to 
us,  will  all  be  done." 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  these  words  that 
jarred  upon  Pet's  ear.  It  implied  that  what  was  to  be  done 
was  necessarily  evil,  and  it  caused  her  to  say  in  a  whisper, 
^*  Oh,  father  !  "  and  to  shrink  childishly  in  her  spoiled  way,  a 
little  closer  to  him.     This  was  not  lost  on  the  speaker. 

"Your  pretty  daughter,"  she  said,  "  starts  to  think  of  such 
things.  Yet,"  looking  full  upon  her,  "you  may  be  sure 
that  there  are  men  and  women  already  on  their  road,  who 
have  their  business  to  do  with  you^  and  who  will  do  it.  Of 
a  certainty  they  will  do  it.  They  may  be  coming  hundreds, 
thousands  of  miles  over  the  sea  there  ;  they  may  be  close  at 
hand  now;  they  may  be  coming,  for  any  thing  you  know,  or 
any  thing  you  can  do  to  prevent  it,  from  the  vilest  sweep- 
ings of  this  very  town." 

With  the  coldest  of  farewells,  and  with  a  certain  worn  ex- 
pression on  her  beauty  that  gave  it,  though  scarcely  yet  in  its 
prime,  a  wasted  look,  she  left  the  room. 


34  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Now,  there  were  many  stairs  and  passages  that  she  had  to 
traverse  in  passing  from  that  part  of  the  spacious  house  to 
the  chamber  she  had  secured  for  her  own  occupation.  When 
she  had  almost  completed  the  journey,  and  was  passing  along 
the  gallery  in  which  her  room  was,  she  heard  an  angry  sound 
of  muttering  and  sobbing.  A  door  stood  open,  and  within 
she  saw  the  attendant  upon  the  girl  she  had  just  left;  the 
maid  with  the  curious  name. 

She  stood  still  to  look  at  this  maid.  A  sullen,  passionate 
girl  !  Her  rich  black  hair  was  all  about  her  face,  her  face 
was  flushed  and  hot,  and  as  she  sobbed  and  raged,  she 
plucked  at  her  lips  with  an  unsparing  hand. 

^*  Selfish  brutes  !  "  said  the  girl,  sobbing  and  heaving  be- 
tween whiles.  ^^  Not  caring  what  becomes  of  me  !  Leav- 
ing me  here  hungry  and  thirsty  and  tired,  to  starve,  for  any 
thing  they  care  !     Beasts  !     Devils  !     Wretches  !  " 

"  My  poor  girl,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  with  reddened  eyes,  and  with  her 
hands  suspended,  in  the  act  of  pinching  her  neck,  freshly 
disfigured  with  great  scarlet  blots.  ''  It's  nothing  to  you 
what's  the  matter.     It  don't  signify  to  any  one." 

*'  Oh,  yes,  it  does  ;  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so." 

*'  You  are  not  sorry,"  said  the  girl.  "  You  are  glad.  You 
know  you  are  glad.  I  never  was  like  this  but  twice,  over  in 
the  quarantine  yonder;  and  both  times  you  found  me.  I  am 
afraid  of  you." 

*'  Afraid  of  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  seem  to  come  like  my  own  anger,  my  own 
malice,  my  own — whatever  it  is — I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
But  I  arn  ill-used,  I  am  ill-used,  I  am  ill-used  !  "  Here  the 
sobs  and  the  tears,  and  the  tearing  hand,  which  had  all  been 
suspended  together,  since  the  first  surprise,  went  on  together 
anew. 

The  visitor  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  strange  attentive 
smile.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  the  fury  of  the  contest  in  the 
girl,  and  the  bodily  struggle  she  made  as  if  she  were  rent  by 
the  demons  of  old. 

"  I  am  younger  than  she  is  by  two  or  three  years,  and  yet 
it's  me  that  looks  after  her,  as  if  I  was  old,  and  it's  she  that's 
always  petted  and  called  baby  !  I  detest  the  name.  I  hate 
her  !  They  make  a  fool  of  her,  they  spoil  her.  She  thinks 
of  nothing  but  herself,  she  thinks  no  more  of  me  than  if  I 
was  a  stock  and  a  stone  !  "     So  the  girl  went  on. 

**  You  must  have  patience." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  35 

"  I  wont  have  patience  !  " 

*^  If  they  take  much  care  of  themselves,  and  little  or  none 
of  you,  you  must  not  mind  it." 

"  I  will  mind  it  !  " 

*'  Hush  !  Be  more  prudent.  You  forget  your  dependent 
position." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that.  I'll  run  away.  I'll  do  some  mis- 
chief. I  won't  bear  it;  I  can't  bear  it;  I  shall  die  if  I  try  to 
bear  it  !  " 

The  observer  stood  with  her  hand  upon  her  own  bosom, 
looking  at  the  girl,  as  one  afflicted  with  a  diseased  part 
might  curiously  watch  the  dissection  and  exposition  of  an 
analogous  case. 

The  girl  raged  and  battled  with  all  the  force  of  her  youth 
and  fullness  of  life,  until  by  little  and  little  her  passionate 
exclamations  trailed  off  into  broken  murmurs  as  if  she 
were  in  pain.  By  corresponding  degrees  she  sank  into  a 
chair,  then  upon  her  knees,  then  upon  the  ground  beside  the 
bed,  drawing  the  coverlet  with  her,  half  to  hide  her  shamed 
head  and  wet  hair  in  it,  and  half,  as  it  seemed,  to  embrace  it, 
rather  than  have  nothing  to  take  to  her  repentant  breast. 

"  Go  away  from  me,  go  away  from  me  !  When  my  temper 
comes  upon  me,  I  am  mad.  I  know  I  might  keep  it  off  if  I 
only  tried  hard  enough,  and  sometimes  I  do  try  hard  enough, 
and  at  other  times  I  don't  and  won't.  What  have  I  said  !  I 
knew  when  I  said  it,  it  was  all  lies.  They  think  I  am  being 
taken  care  of  somewhere,  and  have  all  I  want.  They  are 
nothing  but  good  to  me.  I  love  them  dearly  ;  no  people 
could  ever  be  kinder  to  a  thankless  creature  than  they  always 
are  to  me.  Do,  do  go  away,  for  I  am  afraid  of  you.  I  am 
afraid  of  myself  when  I  feel  my  temper  coming,  and  I  am 
as  much  afraid  of  you.  Go  away  from  me,  and  let  me  pray 
and  cry  myself  better  !  " 

The  day  passed  on;  and  again  the  wide  stare  stared  itself 
out  ;  and  the  hot  night  was  on  Marseilles  ;  and  through  it 
the  caravan  of  the  morning,  all  dispersed,  went  their  ap- 
pointed ways.  And  thus  ever,  by  day  and  night,  under  the 
sun  and  under  the  stars,  climbing  the  dusty  hills  and  toiling 
along  the  weary  plains,  journeying  by  land  and  journeying 
by  sea,  coming  and  going  so  strangely,  to  meet  and  to  act 
and  react  on  one  another,  move  all  we  restless  travelers 
through  the  pilgrimage  of  life. 


36  LITTLE  DORRlT. 


CHAPTER  in. 

HOME. 

It  was  a  Sunday  evening  in  London,  gloomy,  close,  and 
stale.  Maddening  church  bells  of  all  degrees  of  dissonance, 
sharp  and  flat,  cracked  and  clear,  fast  and  slow,  made  the 
brick-and-mortar  echoes  hideous.  Melancholy  streets  in  a 
penitential  garb  of  soot,  steeped  the  souls  of  the  people  who 
were  condemned  to  look  at  them  out  of  windows,  in  dire 
despondency.  In  every  thoroughfare,  up  almost  every  alley, 
and  down  almost  every  turning,  some  dolefull  bell  was 
throbbing,  jerking,  tolling,  as  if  the  plague  were  in  the  city 
and  the  dead-carts  were  going  round.  Every  thing  was 
bolted  and  barred  that  could  by  possibility  furnish  relief  to 
an  overworked  people.  No  pictures,  no  unfamiliar  animals, 
no  rare  plants,  no  flowers,  no  natural  or  artificial  wonders  of 
the  ancient  world — all  taboo  with  that  enlightened  strictness, 
that  the  ugly  South  Sea  gods  inthe  British  Museum  might  have 
supposed  themselves  at  home  again.  Nothing  to  see  but 
streets,  streets,  streets.  Nothing  to  breathe  but  streets, 
streets,  streets.  Nothing  to  change  the  brooding  mind,  or 
raise  it  up.  Nothing  for  the  spent  toiler  to  do,  but  to  com- 
pare the  monotony  of  his  seventh  day  with  the  monotony  of 
his  six  days,  think  what  a  weary  life  he  led,  and  make  the 
best  of  it — or  the  worst,  according  to  the  probabilities. 

At  such  a  happy  time,  so  propitious  to  the  interests  of  re- 
ligion and  morality,  Mr.  Arthur  Clennam,  newly  arrived 
from  Marseilles  by  way  of  Dover,  and  by  Dover  coach  the 
Blue-eyed  Maid,  sat  in  the  window  of  a  coffee-house  on 
Ludgate  Hill.  Ten  thousand  responsible  houses  surrounded 
him,  frowning  as  heavily  on  the  ^streets  they  composed,  as 
if  they  were  every  one  inhabited  by  the  ten  young  men  of 
the  Calender's  story,  who  blackened  their  faces  and  be- 
moaned their  miseries  every  night.  Fifty  thousand  lairs 
surrounded  him  where  people  lived  so  unwholesomely,  that 
fair  water  put  into  their  crowded  rooms  on  Saturday  night, 
would  be  corrupt  on  Sunday  morning  ;  albeit  my  lord,  their 
county  member,  was  amazed  that  they  failed  to  sleep  in 
company  with  their  butcher's  meat.  Miles  of  close  wells 
and  pits  of  houses,  where  the  inhabitants  gasped  for  air, 
stretched  far  away  toward  every  point  of  the  compass. 
Through  the  heart  of  the  town  a  deadly  sewer  ebbed   and 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


37 


flowed,  in  the  place  of  a  fine  fresh  river.  What  secular 
want  could  the  million  or  so  of  human  beings  whose  daily- 
labor,  six  days  in  the  week,  lay  among  these  Arcadian  ob- 
jects, from  the  sweet  sameness  of  which  they  had  no  escape 
between  the  cradle  and  the  grave — what  secular  want  could 
they  possibly  have  upon  their  seventh  day  ?  Clearly  they 
could  want  nothing  but  a  stringent  policeman. 

Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  sat  in  the  window  of  the  coffee-houses 
on  Ludgate  Hill,  counting  one  of  the  neighboring  bells, 
making  sentences  and  burdens  of  songs  out  of  it  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  wondering  how  many  sick  people  it  might  be 
the  death  of  in  the  course  of  the  year.  As  the  hour  ap- 
proached, its  changes  of  measure  made  it  more  and  more  ex- 
asperating. At  the  quarter,  it  went  off  into  a  condition  of 
deadly-lively  importunity,  urging  the  populace  in  a  voluble 
manner  to  come  to  church,  come  to  church,  come  to  church  ! 
At  the  ten  minutes,  it  became  aware  that  the  congregation 
would  be  scanty,  and  slowly  hammered  out  in  low  spirits. 
They  wont  come,  they  won't  come,  they  wont  come  !  At 
the  five  minutes,  it  abandoned  hope,  and  shook  every  house 
in  the  neighborhood  for  three  hundred  seconds,  with  one 
dismal  swing  per  second,  as  a  groan  of  despair. 

**  Thank  heaven  !  "  said  Clennam,  when  the  hour  struck, 
and  the  bell  stopped. 

But  its  sound  had  revived  a  long  train  of  miserable  Sun- 
days, and  the  procession  would  not  stop  with  the  bell,  but 
continued  to  march  on.  "  Heaven  forgive  me,"  said  he, 
*^  and  those  who  trained  me.     How  I  have  hated  this  day  !  " 

There  was  the  dreary  Sunday  of  his  childhood,  when  he 
sat  with  his  hands  before  him,  scared  out  of  his  senses  by  a 
horrible  tract  which  commenced  business  with  the  poor  child 
by  asking  him  in  its  title,  why  he  was  going  to  perdition  ? — 
a  piece  of  curiosity  that  he  really  in  a  frock  and  drawers  was 
not  in  a  condition  to  satisfy — and  which,  for  the  further  at- 
traction of  his  infant  mind,  had  a  parenthesis  in  every  other 
line  with  some  such  hiccoughing  reference  as  2  Ep.  Thess.  c. 
iii.,  V.  6  &  7.  There  was  the  sleepy  Sunday  of  his  boyhood, 
when,  like  a  military  deserter,  he  was  marched  to  chapel  by 
a  picket  of  teachers  three  times  a  day,  morally  handcuffed 
to  another  boy  ;  and  when  he  would  willingly  have  bartered 
two  meals  of  indigestible  sermon  for  another  ounce  or  two 
of  inferior  mutton  at  his  scanty  dinner  in  the  flesh.  There 
was  the  interminable  Sunday  of  his  nonage  ;  when  his 
mother,  stern  of  face  and  unrelenting  of  heart,  would  sit  all 


38  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

day  behind  a  Bible — bound,  like  her  own  construction  of  it, 
in  the  hardest,  barest,  and  straitest  boards,  with  one  dinted 
ornament  on  the  cover  like  the  drag  of  a  chain,  and  a  wrath- 
ful sprinkling  of  red  upon  the  edges  of  the  leaves — as  if  it, 
of  all  books  !  were  a  fortification  against  sweetness  of  tem- 
per, natural  affection,  and  gentle  intercourse.  There  was 
the  resentful  Sunday  of  a  little  later,  when  he  sat  glower- 
ing and  glooming  through  the  tardy  length  of  the  day, 
with  a  sullen  sense  of  injury  in  his  heart,  and  no  more 
real  knowledge  of  the  beneficent  history  of  the  New  Tes- 
tament, than  if  he  had  been  bred  among  idolaters.  There 
was  a  legion  of  Sundays,  all  days  of  unserviceable  bitter- 
ness and  mortification,  slowly  passing  before  him. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  a  brisk  waiter,  rubbing  the  table. 
"  Wish  see  bed-room  ?  " 

"Yes.     I  have  just  made  up  my  mind  to  do  it." 

"  Chaymaid  !  "  cried  the  waiter.  "  Gelen  box  num  seven 
wish  see  room  !  " 

"  Stay  !  "  said  Clennam,  rousing  himself.  "  I  was  not 
thinking  of  what  I  said  ;  I  answered  mechanically.  I  am 
not  going  to  sleep  here.     I  am  going  home." 

"  Deed,  sir  }  Chaymaid  !  Gelen  box  num  seven  not  go 
sleep  here,  gome." 

He  sat  in  the  same  place  as  the  day  died,  looking  at  the 
dull  houses  opposite,  and  thinking  if  the  disembodied  spirits 
of  former  inhabitants  were  ever  conscious  of  them,  how  they 
must  pity  themselves  for  their  old  places  of  imprisonment. 
Sometimes  a  face  would  appear  behind  the  dingy  glass  oi  a 
window,  and  would  fade  away  into  the  gloom  as  if  it  had  seen 
enough  of  life  and  had  vanished  out  of  it.  Presently  the  rain 
began  to  fall  in  slanting  lines  between  him  and  those  houses, 
and  people  began  to  collect  under  cover  of  the  public  passage 
opposite,  and  to  look  out  hopelessly  at  the  sky  as  the  rain 
dropped  thicker  and  faster.  Then  wet  umbrellas  began  to 
appeal;^  draggled  skirts,  and  mud.  What  the  mud  had  been 
doing  with  itself,  or  where  it  came  from,  who  could  say  ? 
But  it  seemed  to  collect  in  a  moment,  as  a  crowd  will,  and  in 
five  minutes  to  have  splashed  all  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
Adam.  The  lamp-lighter  was  going  his  rounds  now;  and  as 
the  fiery  jets  sprang  up  under  his  touch,  one  might  have 
fancied  them  astonished  at  being  suffered  to  introduce  any 
show  of  brightness  into  such  a  dismal  scene. 

Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  took  up  his  hat  and  buttoned  his 
coat,  and  walked  out.     In  the  country,  the  rain  would  have 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  39 

developed  a  thousand  fresh  scents;  and  every  drop  would  have 
had  its  bright  association  with  some  beautiful  form  of  growth 
or  life.  In  the  city  it  developed  only  foul,  stale  smells,  and 
was  a  sickly,  lukewarm,  dirt-stained,  wretched  addition  to 
the  gutters. 

He  crossed  by  St.  Paul's  and  went  down,  at  a  long  angle, 
almost  to  the  water's  edge,  through  some  of  the  crooked  and 
descending  streets  which  lie  (and  lay  more  crookedly  and 
closely  then)  between  the  river  and  Cheapside.  Passing, 
now  the  n*ioldy  hall  of  some  obsolete  worshipful  company, 
now  the  illuminated  windows  of  a  congregationless  church 
that  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  some  adventurous  Belzoni  to 
dig  it  out  and  discover  its  history;  passing  silent  warehouses 
and  wharves,  and  here  and  there  a  narrow  alley  leading  to 
the  river,  where  a  wretched  little  bill,  P'ound  Drowned,  was 
weeping  on  the  wet  wall;  he  came  at  last  to  the  house  he 
sought.  An  old  brick  house,  so  dingy  as  to  be  all  but  black, 
standing  by  itself  within  a  gateway.  Before  it,  a  square 
court-yard  where  a  shrub  or  two  and  a  patch  of  grass  were 
as  rank  (which  is  saying  much)  as  the  iron  railings  inclos- 
ing them  were  rusty*  behind  it,  a  jumble  of  roots.  It  was  a 
double  house,  with  long,  narrow,  heavily-framed  windows. 
Many  years  ago,  it  had  it  in  its  mind  to  slide  down 
sideways;  it  had  been  propped  up,  however,  and  was  leaning 
on  some  half-dozen  gigantic  crutches;  which  gymnasium  for 
the  neighboring  cats,  weather-stained,  smoke-blackened,  and 
overgrown  with  weeds,  appeared  in  these  latter  days  to  be 
no  very  sure  reliance. 

**  Nothing  changed,"  said  the  traveler,  stopping  to  look 
round.  "  Dark  and  miserable  as  ever.  A  light  in  my 
mother's  window,  which  seems  never  to  have  been  extin- 
guished since  I  came  home  twice  a  year  from  school,  and 
dragged  my  box  over  this  pavement.     Well,  well,  well !" 

He  went  up  to  the  door,  which  had  a  projecting  canopy 
in  carved  work,  of  festooned  jack-towels  and  children's 
heads  with  water  on  the  brain,  designed  after  a  once  popu- 
lar monumental  pattern;  and  knocked.  A  shuffling  step 
was  soon  heard  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  hall,  and  the  door 
was  opened  by  an  old  man;  bent  and  dried,  but  with  keen 
eyes. 

He  had  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and  he  held  it  up  for  a  mo- 
ment to  assist  his  keen  eyes.  ^'  Ah,  Mr.  Arthur  !"  he  said, 
without  any  emotion,  ^*  you  are  come  at  last  ?     Step  in." 

Mr.  Arthur  stepped  in  and  shut  the  door, 


40  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  M  )ur  figure  is  filled  out,  and  set,"  said  the  old  man, 
turnitig  to  look  at  him  with  the  light  raised  again,  and  shak- 
ing his  head;  *^  but  you  don't  come  up  to  your  father  in  my 
opinion.     Nor  yet  your  mother." 

*'  How  is  my  mother  ?  '* 

**  She  is  as  she  always  is  now.  Keeps  her  room  when  not 
actually  bedridden,  and  hasn't  been  out  of  it  fifteen  times  in 
as  many  years,  Arthur."  They  had  walked  into  a  spare 
meager  dining-room.  The  old  man  had  put  the  candlestick 
upon  the  table,  and  supporting  his  right  elbow  with  his  left 
hand,  was  smoothing  his  leathern  jaws  while  he  looked  at 
the  visitor.  The  visitor  offered  his  hand.  The  old  man 
took  it  coldly  enough,  and  seemed  to  prefer  his  jaws;  to 
which  he  returned,  as  soon  as  he  could. 

"I  doubt  if  your  mother  will  approve  of  your  coming 
home  on  the  Sabbath,  Arthur,'*  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
wearily. 

**  You  wouldn't  have  me  go  away  again  ? " 

*'  Oh  !  I  ?  I  ?  I  am  not  the  master.  It's  not  what  / 
would  have.  I  have  stood  between  your  father  and  mother 
for  a  number  of  years.  I  don't  pretend  to  stand  between 
your  mother  and  you.'* 

^'  Will  you  tell  her  that  I  have  come  home  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Arthur,  yes.  Oh,  to  be  sure  !  I'll  tell  her  that  you 
have  come  home.  Please  to  wait  here.  You  won't  find  the 
room  changed."  He  took  another  candle  from  a  cupboard, 
lighted  it,  left  the  first  on  the  table,  and  went  upon  his  errand. 
He  was  a  short,  bald  old  man,  in  a  high-shouldered  black 
coat  and  waistcoat,  drab  breeches,  and  long  drab  gaiters. 
He  might,  from  his  dress,  have  been  either  clerk  or  servant, 
and  in  fact  had  long  been  both.  There  was  nothing  about 
him  in  the  way  of  decoration  but  a  watch,  which  was 
lowered  into  the  depths  of  its  proper  pocket  by  an  old  black 
ribbon,  and  had  a  tarnished  copper  key  moored  above  it,  to 
show  where  it  was  sunk.  His  head  was  awry,  and  he  had  a 
one-sided,  crab-like  way  with  him,  as  if  his  foundations  had 
yielded  at  about  the  same  time  as  those  of  the  house,  and  he 
ought  to  have  been  propped  up  in  a  similar  manner. 

**  How  weak  am  I,"  said  Arthur  Clennam,  when  he  was 
gone,  **  that  I  could  shed  tears  at  this  reception  ?  I,  who 
have  never  experienced  any  thing  else  ;  who  have  never 
expected  any  thing  else." 

He  not  only  could,  but  did.  It  was  the  momentary  yield- 
ing of  a  nature  that  had  been  disappointed  from  the  dawn 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  41 

of  Its  perceptions,  but  had  not  quite  given  up  all  its  hopeful 
yearnings  yet.  He  subdued  it,  took  up  the  candle,  and 
examined  the  room.  The  old  articles  of  furniture  were  in 
their  old  places  ;  the  plagues  of  Egypt,  much  the  dimmer 
for  the  fly  and  smoke  plagues  of  London,  were  framed  and 
glazed  upon  the  walls.  There  was  the  old  cellaret  with 
nothing  in  it,  lined  with  lead,  like  a  sort  of  coffin  in  com- 
partments ;  there  was  the  old  dark  closet,  also  with  nothing 
in  it,  of  which  he  had  been  many  a  time  the  sole  contents, 
in  days  of  punishment,  when  he  had  regarded  it  as  the 
veritable  entrance  to  that  bourne  to  which  the  tract  had 
found  him  galloping.  There  was  the  large,  hard-featured 
clock  on  the  sideboard,  which  he  used  to  see  bending  its 
figured  brows  upon  him  with  a  savage  joy  when  he  was 
behind-hand  with  his  lessons,  and  which,  when  it  was  wound 
up  once  a  week  wdth  an  iron  handle,  used  to  sound  as  if  it 
were  growling  in  ferocious  anticipation  of  the  miseries  into 
which  it  would  bring  him.  But  here  was  the  old  man  come 
back,  saying,  "  Arthur,  I'll  go  before  and  light  you." 

Arthur  followed  him  up  the  staircase,  which  was  paneled 
off  into  spaces  like  so  many  mourning  tablets,  into  a  dim 
bed-chamber,  the  floor  of  which  had  gradually  so  sunk  and 
settled,  that  the  fireplace  was  in  a  dell.  On  a  black  bier- 
like sofa  in  this  hollow,  propped  up  behind  with  one  great 
angular  black  bolster,  like  the  block  at  a  state  execution  in 
the  good  old  times,  sat  his  mother  in  a  widow's  dress. 

She  and  his  father  had  been  at  variance  from  his  earliest 
remembrance.  To  sit  speechless  himself  in  the  midst  of 
rigid  silence,  glancing  in  dread  from  the  one  averted  face  to 
the  other,  had  been  the  peacefulest  occupation  of  his  child- 
hood. She  gave  him  one  glassy  kiss,  and  four  stiff  fingers 
muffled  in  worsted.  This  embrace  concluded,  he  sat  down 
on  the  opposite  side  of  her  little  table.  There  was  a  fire  in 
the  grate,  as  there  had  been  night  and  day  for  fifteen  years. 
There  was  a  kettle  on  the  hod,  as  there  had  been  night  and 
day  for  fifteen  years.  There  was  a  little  mound  of  damped 
ashes  on  the  top  of  the  fire,  and  another  little  mound  swept 
together  under  the  grate,  as  there  had  been  night  and  day 
for  fifteen  years.  There  was  a  smell  of  black  dye  in  the 
airless  room,  which  the  fire  had  been  drawing  out  of  the 
crape  and  stuff  of  the  widow's  dress  for  fifteen  months,  and 
out  of  the  bier-like  sofa  for  fifteen  years. 

*^  Mother,  this  is  a  change  from  your  old  active  habits." 

**  The  world  has  narrowed  to  these  dimensions,   Arthur," 


42  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

she  replied,  glancing  round  the  room.  **  It  is  well  for  me 
that  I  never  set  my  heart  upon  its  hollow  vanities." 

The  whole  influence  of  her  presence  and  her  stern  strong 
voice,  so  gathered  about  her  son,  that  he  felt  conscious  of  a 
renewal  of  the  timid  chill  and  reserve  of  his  childhood. 

"  Do  you  never  leave  your  room,  mother  ? " 

"What  with  my  rheumatic  affection,  and  what  with  its 
attendant  debility  or  nervous  weakness — names  are  of  no 
matter  now — I  have  lost  the  use  of  my  limbs.  I  never  leave 
my  room.  I  have  not  been  outside  this  door  for — tell 
him  for  how  long,"  she  said,  speaking  over  her  shoulder. 

"  A  dozen  year  next  Christmas,"  returned  a  cracked  voice 
out  of  the  dimness  behind. 

**  Is  that  Affery  ?  "  said  Arthur,  looking  toward  it. 

The  cracked  voice  replied  that  it  was  Affery  :  and  an  old 
woman  came  forward  into  what  doubtful  light  there  was,  and 
kissed  her  hand  once  ;  then  subsided  again  into  the  dimness. 

*^  I  am  able,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  with  a  slight  motion  of 
her  worsted-muffled  right  hand  toward  a  chair  on  wheels, 
standing  before  a  tall  writing  cabinet  close  shut  up,  "  I  am 
able  to  attend  to  my  business  duties,  and  I  am  thankful  for 
the  privilege.  It  is  a  great  privilege.  But  no  more  of  busi- 
ness on  this  day.     It  is  a  bad  night,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Does  it  snow  ?  " 

"  Snow,  mother  ?    And  we  only  yet  in  September  ?  *' 

**  All  seasons  are  alike  to  me,"  she  returned,  with  a  grim 
kind  of  luxuriousness.  "  I  know  nothing  of  summer  and 
winter,  shut  up  here.  The  Lord  has  been  pleased  to  put 
me  beyond  all  that.  "  With  her  cold  gray  eyes  and  her  cold 
gray  hair,  and  her  immovable  face,  as  stiff  as  the  folds  of  her 
stony  head-dress, — her  being  beyond  the  reach  of  the  sea- 
sons, seemed  to  be  a  fit  sequence  to  her  being  beyond  the 
reach  of  all  changing  emotions. 

On  the  little  table  lay  two  or  three  books,  her  hand- 
kerchief, a  pair  of  steel  spectacles  newly  taken  off,  and 
an  old-fashioned  gold  watch  in  a  heavy  double  case. 
Upon  this  last  object  her  son's  eyes  and  her  own  now 
rested  together. 

"  I  see  that  you  received  the  packet  I  sent  you  on  my 
father's  death,  safely,  mother." 

"You  see." 

"  I  never  knew  my  father  to  show  so  much  anxiety  on  any 
subject,  as  that  his  watch  should  be  sent  straight  to  you." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  43 

*'  I  keep  it  here  as  a  remembrance  of  your  father." 

"  It  was  not  until  the  last,  that  he  expressed  the  wish. 
When  he  could  only  put  his  hand  upon  it,  and  very  indis- 
tinctly say  to  me  *  your  mother/  A  moment  before,  I 
thought  him  wandering  in  his  mind,  as  he  had  been  for 
many  hours — I  think  he  had  no  consciousness  of  pain  in  his 
short  illness^ — when  I  saw  him  turn  himself  in  his  bed  and 
try  to  open  it." 

^*  Was  your  father,  then,  not  wandering  in  his  mind  when 
he  tried  to  open  it  ?" 

^*  No,  he  was  quite  sensible  at  that  time." 

Mrs.  Clennam  shook  her  head;  whether  in  dismissal  of 
the  deceased  or  opposing  herself  to  her  son's  opinion,  was  not 
clearly  expressed. 

*'  After  my  father's  death  I  opened  it  myself,  thinking 
there  might  be,  for  any  thing  I  knew,  some  memorandum 
there.  However,  as  I  need  not  tell  you,  mother,  there  was 
nothing  but  the  old  silk  watch-paper,  worked  in  beads,  which 
you  found  (no  doubt)  in  its  place  between  the  cases,  where  I 
found  and  left  it." 

Mrs.  Clennam  signified  assent;  then  added  "  No  more  of 
business  on  this  day,"  and  then  added,  "  Affery,  it  is  nine 
o'clock." 

Upon  this  the  old  woman  cleared  the  little  table,  went  out 
of  the  room,  and  quickly  returned  with  a  tray,  on  which  was 
a  dish  of  little  rusks  and  a  small  precise  pat  of  butter,  cool, 
symmetrical,  white,  and  plump.  The  old  man  who  had 
been  standing  by  the  door  in  one  attitude  during  the  whole 
interview,  looking  at  the  mother  up  stairs  as  he  had  looked 
at  the  son  down  stairs,  went  out  at  the  same  time,  and  after 
a  long  absence,  returned  with  another  tray  on  which  was  the 
greater  part  of  a  bottle  of  port  wine  (which,  to  judge  by  his 
panting,  he  had  brought  from  the  cellar),  a  lemon,  a  sugar- 
basin,  and  a  spice-box.  With  these  materials  and  the  aid  of 
the  kettle,  he  filled  a  tumbler  with  a  hot  and  odorous  mixt- 
ure, measured  out  and  compounded  with  as  much  nicety  as 
a  physician's  prescription.  Into  this  mixure,  Mrs.  Clennam 
dipped  certain  of  the  rusks  and  ate  them;  while  the  old 
woman  buttered  certain  other  of  the  rusks,  which  were  to  be 
eaten  alone.  When  the  invalid  had  eaten  all  the  rusks  and 
drunk  all  the  mixture,  the  two  trays  were  removed;  and  the 
books  and  the  candle,  watch,  handkerchief  and  spectacles 
were  replaced  upon  the  table.  She  then  put  on  the  specta- 
cles and  read  certain  passages  aloud  from  a  book — sternly, 


44  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

fiercely,  wrathfully — praying  that  her  enemies  (she  made 
them  by  her  tone  and  manner  expressly  hers)  might  be  put 
to  the  edge  of  the  sword,  consumed  by  fire,  smitten  by 
plagues  and  leprosy,  that  their  bones  might  be  ground  to 
dust,  and  that  they  might  be  utterly  exterminated.  As  she 
read  on,  years  seemed  to  fall  away  from  her  son  like  the 
imaginings  of  a  dream,  and  all  the  old  dark  horrors  of  his 
usual  preparation  for  the  sleep  of  an  innocent  child  to  over- 
shadow him. 

She  shut  the  book  and  remained  for  a  little  time  with  her 
face  shaded  by  her  hand.  So  did  the  old  man,  otherwise 
still  unchanged  in  attitude;  so,  probably,  did  the  old  woman 
in  her  dimmer  part  of  the  room.  Then  the  sick  woman  was 
ready  for  bed. 

"  Good-night,  Arthur.  Affrey  will  see  to  your  accommo- 
dation. Only  touch  me  for  my  hand  is  tender."  He  touched 
the  worsted  muffling  of  her  hand — that  was  nothing;  if  his 
mother  had  been  sheathed  in  brass  there  would  have  been  no 
new  barrier  between  them — and  followed  the  old  man  and 
woman  down  stairs. 

The  latter  asked  him,  when  they  were  alone  together 
among  the  heavy  shadows  of  Jhe  dining-room,  would  he  have 
some  supper. 

"  No,  Affery,  no  supper.** 

"  You  shall  if  you  like,"  said  Affery.  "There's  her  to- 
morrow's partridge  in  the  larder — her  first  this  year;  say  the 
word  and  I'll  cook  it." 

No,  he  had  not  long  dined,  and  could  eat  nothing. 

**  Have  something  to  drink,  then,"  said  Affery;  ^'  you  shall 
have  some  of  her  bottle  of  port,  if  you  like.  I'll  tell  Jere- 
miah that  you  ordered  me  to  bring  it  you." 

No;  nor  would  he  have  that,  either. 

'^  It's  no  reason,  Arthur,"  said  the  old  woman,  bending 
over  him  to  whisper,  ^'  that  because  I  am  afeared  of  my  li-fe 
of  'em,  you  should  be.  You've  got  half  the  property,  haven't 
you?" 

''  Yes,  yes." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  you  be  cowed.  You're  clever,  Arthur, 
an't  you?" 

He  nodded,  as  she  seemed  to  expect  an  answer  in  the 
affirmative. 

"  Then  stand  up  against  them  I  She's  awful  clever,  and 
none  but  a  clever  one  durst  say  a  word  to  her.  I/es  a  clever 
one — oh,  he's  a  clever  one  ! — and  he  gives  it  her  when  he 
has  a  mind  to't,  he  does  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  45 

**  Your  husband  does  !  " 

'*  Does  ?  It  makes  me  shake  from  head  to  foot,  to  hear 
him  give  it  her.  My  husband,  Jeremiah  Flintwinch,  can 
conquer  even  your  mother.  What  can  he  be  but  a  clever  one 
to  do  that!  " 

His  shuffling  footstep  coming  toward  them  caused  her  to 
retreat  to  the  other  end  of  the  room.  Though  a  tall,  hard- 
favored,  sinewy  old  woman,  who  in  her  youth  might  have 
enlisted  in  the  Foot  Guards  without  much  fear  of  discovery, 
she  collapsed  before  the  little  keen-eyed  crab-like  old  man. 

*'  Now,  Affery,"  said  he,  '*  now,  woman,  what  are  you  do- 
ing ?  Can't  you  find  Master  Arthur  something  or  another  to 
pick  at  ?" 

Master  Arthur  repeated  his  recent  refusal  to  pick  at  any 
thing. 

*^  Very  well,  then,*'  said  the  old  man;  "  make  his  bed.  Stir 
yourself."  His  neck  was  so  twisted,  that  the  knotted  ends  of 
his  white  cravat  usually  dangled  under  one  ear;  his  natural 
acerbity  and  energy,  always  contending  with  a  second  nature 
of  habitual  repression,  gave  his  features  a  swollen  and  suf- 
fused look;  and  altogether,  he  had  a  weird  appearance  of 
having  hanged  himself  at  one  time  or  other,  and  of  having 
gone  about  ever  since,  halter  and  all,  exactly  as  some  timely 
hand  had  cut  him  down. 

"  You'll  have  bitter  words  together  to-morrow,  Arthur;  you 
and  your  mother,"  said  Jeremiah.  *'  Your  having  given  up 
the  business  on  your  father's  death — which  she  suspects, 
though  we  have  left  it  to  you  to  tell  her — won't  go  off 
smoothly." 

"  I  have  given  up  every  thing  in  life  for  the  business,  and 
the  time  came  for  me  to  give  up  that." 

"  Good  !  "  cried  Jeremiah,  evidently  meaning  bad.  "  Very 
good!  only  don't  expect  me  to  stand  between  your  mother 
and  you,  Arthur.  I  stood  between  your  mother  and  your 
father,  fending  off  this,  and  fending  off  that,  and  getting 
crushed  and  pounded  betwixt  'em;  and  I've  done  with  such 
work." 

^^  You  will  never  be  asked  to  begin  it  again  for  me,  Jere- 
miah." 

*'Good.  I'm  glad  to  hear  it;  because  I  should  have  had 
to  decline  it,  if  I  had  been.  That's  enough — as  your  mother 
says — and  more  than  enough  of  such  matters  on  a  Sabbath 
night.     Affery,  woman,  have  you  found  what  you  want  yet  ?  " 

She  had  been  collecting  sheets  and  blankets  from  a  press, 


46  LITTLE  DORRIT, 

and  hastened  to  gather  them  up,  and  to  reply,  "  Yes,  Jere- 
miah." Arthur  Clennam  helped  her  by. carrying  the  load 
himself,  wished  the  old  man  good-night,  and  went  up  stairs 
with  her  to  the  top  of  the  house. 

They  mounted  up  and  up,  through  the  musty  smell  of  an 
old  close  house,  little  used,  to  a  large  garret  bed-room. 
Meager  and  spare,  like  all  the  other  rooms,  it  was  even  uglier 
and  grimmer  than  the  rest,  by  being  the  place  of  banishment 
for  the  worn-out  furniture.  Its  movables  were  ugly  old 
chairs  with  worn-out  seats,  and  ugly  old  chairs  without  any 
seats;  a  threadbare  patternless  carpet,  a  maimed  table,  a 
crippled  wardrobe,  a  lean  set  of  fire-irons  like  the  skeleton  of 
a  set  deceased,  a  washing-stand  that  looked  as  if  it  had  stood 
for  ages  in  a  hail  of  dirty  soapsuds,  and  a  bedstead  with  four 
bare  atomies  of  posts,  each  terminating  in  a  spike,  as  if  for 
the  dismal  accommodation  of  lodgers  who  might  prefer  to 
impale  themselves.  Arthur  opened  the  long  low  window, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  old  blasted  and  blackened  forest 
of  chimneys,  and  the  old  red  glare  in  the  sky  which  had 
seemed  to  him  once  upon  a  time  but  a  nightly  reflection  of  the 
fiery  environment  that  was  presented  to  his  childish  fancy  in 
all  directions,  let  it  look  where  it  would. 

He  drew  in  his  head  again,  sat  down  at  the  bedside,  and 
looked  on  at  Affery  Flintwinch  making  the  bed. 

"Affery,  you  were  not  married  when  I  went  away." 

She  screwed  her  mouth  into  the  form  of  saying.  "  No," 
shook  her  head,  and  proceeded  to  get  a  pillow  into  its  case. 

'*  How  did  it  happen  ? " 

"  Why,  Jeremiah,  o'  course,"  said  Affery,  with  an  end  of 
the  pillow-case  between  her  teeth. 

"  Of  course  he  proposed  it,  but  how  did  it  all  come  about  ? 
I  should  have  thought  that  neither  of  you  would  have  mar- 
ried ;  least  of  all  should  I  have  thought  of  your  marrying 
each  other." 

*'  No  more  should  I,"  said  Mrs.  Flintwinch,  tying  the  pil- 
low tightly  in  its  case. 

"  That's  what  I  mean.  When  did  you  begin  to  think 
otherwise?" 

"  Never  begun  to  think  otherwise  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Flint- 
winch. 

Seeing,  as  she  patted  the  pillow  into  its  place  on  the  bol- 
ster, that  he  was  still  looking  at  her,  as  if  waiting  for  the  rest 
of  her  reply,  she  gave  it  a  great  poke  in  the  middle,  and 
asked,  **  How  could  I  help  myself  ?  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  47 

*'  How  could  you  help  yourself  from  being  married  !  '* 

*^0'  course,"  said  Mrs.  Flintwinch.  '^  It  was  no  doing  o* 
mine,  /'d  never  thought  of  it.  I'd  got  something  to  do, 
without  thinking,  indeed  !  She  kept  me  to  it  when  she  could 
go  about,  and  she  could  go  about  then." 

"Well?" 

''Well?"  echoed  Mrs.  Flintwinch.  "  That's  what  I  said 
myself.  Well  !  What's  the  use  of  considering  ?  If  them 
two  clever  ones  has  made  up  their  minds  to  it,  what's  left 
for  me  to  do  ?     Nothing." 

*'  Was  it  my  mother's  project,  then  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  bless  you,  Arthur,  and  forgive  me  the  wish  !  " 
cried  Affery,  speaking  always  in  a  low  tone.  **  If  they  hadn't 
been  both  of  a  mind  in  it,  how  could  it  ever  have  been  ? 
Jeremiah  never  courted  me  ;  t'ant  likely  that  he  would,  after 
living  in  the  house  with  me  and  ordering  me  about  for  as 
many  years  .as  he'd  done.  He  said  to  me  one  day,  he  said, 
'  Affery,'  he  said,  ^  now  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  name  of  Flintwinch  ? '  '  What  do 
I  think  of  it  ? '  I  says.  *  Yes,'  he  said  ;  '  because  you're  going 
to  take  it,'  he  said.  *  Take  it  ? '  I  says.  '  Jere-;;//-ah  ? '  Oh  ! 
he's  a  clever  one  !  " 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  went  on  to  spread  the  upper  sheet  over 
the  bed,  and  the  blanket  over  that,  and  the  counterpane  over 
that,  as  if  she  had  quite  concluded  her  story. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Arthur  again. 

*'  Well  ?  "  echoed  Mrs.  Flintwinch  again.  "  How  could  I 
help  myself  ?  He  said  to  me,  '  Affery,  you  and  me  must  be 
married,  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  She's  failing  in  health,  and 
she'll  want  pretty  constant  attendance  up  in  her  room,  and 
we  shall  have  to  be  much  with  her,  and  there'll  be  nobody 
about  now  but  ourselves  when  we're  away  from  her,  and 
altogether  it  will  be  more  convenient.  She's  of  my  opinion,' 
he  said,  '  so  if  you'll  put  your  bonnet  on,  next  Monday 
morning  at  eight,  we'll  get  it  over.*  "  Mrs.  Flintwinch  tucked 
up  the  bed. 

"Well?" 

"  Well  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Flintwinch,  "  I  think  so  !  I  sits 
me  down  and  says  it.  Well ! — Jeremiah  then  says  to  me, 
*  As  to  banns,  next  Sunday  being  the  third  time  of  asking 
(for  I've  put  'em  up  a  fortnight),  is  my  reason  for  naming 
Monday.  She'll  speak  to  you  about  it  herself,  and  now  she'll 
find  you  prepared,  Affery.'  That  same  day  she  spoke  to  me, 
and  she  said,  '  So,  Affery,  I  understand  that  you  and  Jeremiah 


48  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

are  going  to  be  married.  I  am  glad  of  it,  and  so  are  you, 
with  reason.  It  is  a  very  good  thing  for  you,  and  very  wel- 
come under  the  circumstances  to  me.  He  is  a  sensible  man, 
and  a  trustworthy  man,  and  a  persevering  man,  and  a  pious 
man.*  What  could  I  say  when  it  had  come  to  that  ?  Why, 
if  it  had  been — a  smothering  instead  of  a  wedding,"  Mrs. 
Flintwinch  cast  about  in  her  mind  with  great  pains  for  this 
form  of  expression,  "  I  couldn't  have  said  a  word  upon  it, 
against  them  two  clever  ones." 

"  In  good  faith,  I  believe  so." 

"  And  so  you  may,  Arthur.'* 

**  Affery,  what  girl  was  that  in  my  mother's  room  just 
now  ? " 

''Girl  ?"  said  Mrs.  Flintwinch  in  a  rather  sharp  key. 

**  It  was  a  girl,  surely,  whom  I  saw  near  you — almost  hid- 
den in  the  dark  corner?" 

"  Oh  !  She  ?  Little  Dorrit  ?  She's  nothing  ;  she's  a  whim 
of — hers."  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  Affery  Flintwinch  that 
she  never  spoke  of  Mrs.  Clennam  by  name.  ^'  But  there's 
another  sort  of  girls  than  that  about.  Have  you  forgot  your 
old  sweetheart  ?     Long  and  long  ago,  I'll  be  bound." 

*'  I  suffered  enough  from  my  mother's  separating  us,  to 
remember  her.     I  recollect  her  very  well." 

"  Have  you  got  another  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Here's  news  for  you,  then.  She's  well  to  do  now,  and  a 
widow.     And  if  you  like  to  have  her,  why  you  can." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that,  Affery  ? " 

''  Them  two  clever  ones  have  been  speaking  about  it. — 
There's  Jeremiah  on  the  stairs  !  "  She  was  gone  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  had  introduced  into  the  web  that  his  mind 
was  busily  weaving,  in  that  old  workshop  where  the  loom  of 
his  youth  had  stood,  the  last  thread  wanting  to  the  pattern. 
The  airy  folly  of  a  boy's  love  had  found  its  way  into  that 
house,  and  he  had  been  as  wretched  under  its  hopelessness 
as  if  the  house  had  been  a  castle  of  romance.  Little  more 
than  a  week  ago,  at  Marseilles,  the  face  of  the  pretty  girl 
from  whom  he  had  parted  with  regret,  had  had  an  unusual 
interest  for  him  and  a  tender  hold  upon  him,  because  of 
some  resemblance,  real  or  imagined,  to  this  first  face  that 
had  soared  out  of  his  gloomy  life  into  the  bright  glories  of 
fancy.  He  leaned  upon  the  sill  of  the  long,  low  window,  and 
looking  out  upon  the  blackened  forest  of  chimneys  again, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  49 

began  to  dream.  For,  it  had  been  the  uniform  tendency  of 
this  man's  life — so  much  was  wanting  in  it  to  think  about,  so 
much  that  might  have  been  better  directed  and  happier  to 
speculate  upon — to  make  him  a  dreamer,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  FLINTWINCH  HAS  A  DREAM. 

When  Mrs  Flintwinch  dreamed,  she  usually  dreamed,  un- 
like the  son  of  her  old  mistress,  with  her  eyes  shut.  She  had 
a  curiously  vivid  dream  that  night,  and  before  she  had  left 
the  son  of  her  old  mistress  many  hours.  In  fact  it  was  not 
at  all  like  a  dream,  it  was  so  very  real  in  every  respect.  It 
happened  in  this  wise. 

The  bed-chamber  occupied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Flintwinch 
was  within  a  few  paces  of  that  to  which  Mrs.  Clennam  had 
been  so  long  confined.  It  was  not  on  the  same  floor,  for  it 
was  a  r©om  at  the  side  of  the  house,  which  was  approached 
by  a  steep  descent  of  a  few  odd  steps,  diverging  from  the  main 
staircase  nearly  opposite  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  door.  It  could 
scarcely  be  said  to  be  within  call,  the  walls,  doors,  and 
paneling  of  the  old  place  were  so  cumbrous;  but  it  was 
within  easy  reach,  in  any  undress,  at  any  hour  of  the  night:, 
in  any  temperature.  At  the  head  of  the  bed,  and  within  a 
foot  of  Mrs.  Flintwinch's  ear,  was  a  bell,  the  line  of  which 
hung  ready  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  hand.  Whenever  this  bell 
rang,  up  started  Affery,  and  was  in  the  sick  room  before  she 
was  awake. 

Having  got  her  mistress  into  bed,  lighted  her  lamp,  and 
given  her  good-night,  Mrs.  Flintwinch  went  to  roost  as  usual, 
saving  that  her  lord  had  not  yet  appeared.  It  was  her  lord 
himself  who  became — unlike  the  last  theme  in  the  mind,  ac- 
cording to  the  observation  of  most  philosophers — the  subject 
of  Mrs.  Flintwinch's  dream. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  awoke,  after  sleeping  some  hours, 
and  found  Jeremiah  not  yet  abed.  That  she  looked  at  the 
candle  she  had  left  burning,  and,  measuring  the  time  like 
king  Alfred  the  Great,  was  confirmed  by  its  wasted  state  in 
her  belief  that  she  had  been  asleep  for  some  considerable 
period.  That  she  arose  thereupon,  muffled  herself  up  in  a 
wrapper,  put  on  her  shoes,  and  went  out  on  the  staircase  much 
surprised,  to  look  for  Jeremiah. 


50  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

The  staircase  was  as  wooden  and  solid  as  need  be,  and 
Aff  ery  went  straight  down  it  without  any  of  those  deviations 
peculiar  to  dreams.  She  did  not  skim  over  it,  but  walked 
down  it,  and  guided  herself  by  the  banisters  on  account  of 
her  candle  having  died  out.  In  one  corner  of  the  hall,  be- 
hind the  house-door,  there  was  a  little  waiting-room,  like  a 
well-shaft,  with  along  narrow  window  in  it  as  if  it  had  been 
ripped  up.  In  this  room,  which  was  never  used,  a  light  was 
burning. 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  crossed  the  hall,  feeling  its  pavement  cold 
to  her  stockingless  feet,  and  peeped  in  between  the 
rusty  hinges  of  the  door,  which  stood  a  little  open.  She  ex- 
pected to  see  Jeremiah  fast  asleep  or  in  a  fit,  but  he  was 
calmly  seated  in  a  chair,  awake,  and  in  his  usual  health.  But 
what — hey  ? — Lord  forgive  us  ! — Mrs.  Flintwinch  muttered 
some  ejaculation  to  this  effect,  and  turned  giddy. 

For,  Mr.  Flintwinch  awake,  was  watching  Mr.  Flintwinch 
asleep.  He  sat  on  one  side  of  a  small  table,  looking  keenly 
at  himself  on  the  other  side  with  his  chin  sunk  on  his  breast, 
snoring.  The  waking  Flintwinch  had  his  full  front  face  pre- 
sented to  his  wife  ;  the  sleeping  Flintwinch  was  in  profile. 
The  waking  Flintwinch  was  the  old  original ;  the  sleeping 
Flintwinch  was  the  double.  Just  as  she  might  have  distin- 
guished between  a  tangible  object  and  its  reflection  in  the 
glass,  Affery  made  out  this  difference  with  her  head  going 
round  and  round. 

If  she  had  had  any  doubt  which  was  her  own  Jeremiah,  it 
would  have  been  resolved  by  his  impatience.  He  looked 
about  him  for  an  offensive  weapon,  caught  up  the  snuffers, 
and,  before  applying  them  to  the  cabbage-headed  candle, 
lunged  at  the  sleeper  as  though  he  would  have  run  him 
through  the  body. 

"  Who's  that  ?  What's  the  matter  ? "  cried  the  sleeper, 
starting. 

Mr.  Flintwinch  made  a  movement  with  the  snuffers,  as  if 
he  would  have  enforced  silence  on  his  companion  by  putting 
them  down  his  throat ;  the  companion  coming  to  himself, 
said,  rubbing  his  eyes,  "I  forgot  where  I  was." 

"  You  have  been  asleep,"  snarled  Jeremiah,  referring  to 
his  watch,  "  two  hours.  You  said  you  would  be  rested 
enough  if  you  had  a  short  nap." 

"I  have  had  a  short  nap,"  said  Double. 

"  Half-past  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,"  muttered  Jere- 
miah. "  Where's  your  hat  ^  Where's  your  coat  ?  Where's 
the  box  ? " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  ^k 

"All  here,"  said  Double,  tying  up  his  throat  with  sleepy 
carefulness  in  a  shawl.  *'  Stop  a  minute.  Now  give  me  the 
sleeve — not  that  sleeve,  the  other  one.  Ha  !  I  am  not  as 
young  as  I  was."  Mr.  Flinwinch  had  pulled  him  into  his 
coat  with  vehement  energy.  "  You  promised  me  a  second 
glass  after  I  was  rested." 

"  Drink  it  !  "  returned  Jeremiah,  **  and — choke  yourself, 
I  was  going  to  say — but  go,  I  mean."  At  the  same  time  he 
produced  the  identical  port-wine  bottle,  and  filled  a  wine- 
glass. 

^'  Her  port-wine,  I  believe  ? "  said  Double,  tasting  it 
as  if  he  were  in  the  docks,  with  hours  to  spare.  "  Her 
health." 

He  took  a  sip. 

''  Your  health  !  " 

He  took  another  sip. 

"  His  health  I  " 

He  took  another  sip. 

"And  all  friends  round  St.  Paul's.**  He  emptied  and  put 
down  the  wine-glass  half-way  through  this  ancient  civic  toast, 
and  took  up  the  box.  It  was  an  iron  box  some  two  feet 
square,  which  he  carried  under  his  arms  pretty  easily.  Jere- 
miah watched  his  manner  of  adjusting  it,  with  jealous  eyes  ; 
tried  it  with  his  hands,  to  be  sure  he  had  a  firm  hold  of  it ; 
bade  him  for  his  life  be  careful  what  he  was  about  ;  and 
then  stole  out  on  tiptoe  to  open  the  door  for  him.  Affery, 
anticipating  the  last  movement,  was  on  the  staircase.  The 
sequence  of  things  was  so  ordinary  and  natural,  that,  stand- 
ing there,  she  could  hear  the  door  open,  feel  the  night  air,  and 
see  the  stars  outside. 

But  now  came  the  most  remarkable  part  of  the  dream. 
She  felt  so  afraid  of  her  husband,  that  being  on  the  stair- 
case, she  had  not  the  power  to  retreat  to  her  room  (which 
she  might  easily  have  done  before  he  had  fastened  the 
door),  but  stood  there  staring.  Consequently,  when  he  came 
up  the  staircase  to  bed,  candle  in  hand,  he  came  full  upon 
her.  He  looked  astonished,  but  said  not  a  word.  He  kept 
his  eyes  upon  her,  and  kept  advancing  ;  and  she,  completely 
under  his  influence,  kept  retiring  before  him.  Thus,  she 
walking  backward  and  he  walking  forward,  they  came  into 
their  own  room.  They  were  no  sooner  shut  in  there,  than 
Mr.  Flintwinch  took  her  by  the  throat,  and  shook  her  untii 
?he  was  black  in  the  face. 
/*Why,   Affery,  woman — Affery!"  said   Mr.   Flintwincl^ 


52  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  What  have  you  been  dreaming  of  ?  Wake  up,  wake  up  ! 
What's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  The — matter,  Jeremiah  ?  *'  gasped  Mrs.  Flintwinch, 
rolling  her  eyes. 

*'  Why,  Affery,  woman — Affery  !  You  have  been  getting 
out  of  bed  in  your  sleep,  my  dear  !  I  come  up,  after  having 
fallen  asleep  myself,  below,  and  find  you  in  your  wrapper 
here,  with  the  nightmare.  Affery,  woman,"  said  Mr.  Flint- 
winch,  with  a  friendly  grin  on  his  expressive  countenance,  "  if 
you  ever  have  a  dream  of  this  sort  again,  it'll  be  a  sign  of 
your  being  in  want  of  physic.  And  I'll  give  you  such  a  dose^ 
old  woman — rsuch  a  dose  !  " 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  thanked  him  and  crept  into  bed. 


CHAPTER    V. 

FAMILY     AFFAIRS. 

As  the  city  clocks  struck  nine  on  Monday  morning,  Mrs. 
Clennam  was  wheeled  by  Jeremiah  Flintwinch  of  the  cut- 
down  aspect,  to  her  tall  cabinet.  When  she  had  unlocked 
and  opened  it,  and  had  settled  herself  at  its  desk,  Jeremiah 
withdrew — as  it  might  be,  to  hang  himself  more  effectually 
— and  her  son  appeared. 

*'  Are  you  any  better  this  morning,  mother  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  the  same  austere  air  of  luxuri- 
ousness  that  she  had  shown  over-night  when  speaking  of  the 
weather.  ^*  I  shall  never  be  better  any  more.  It  is  well  for 
me,  Arthur,  that  I  know  it  and  can  bear  it." 

Sitting  with  her  hands  laid  separately  upon  the  desk,  and 
the  tall  cabinet  towering  before  her,  she  looked  as  if  she 
were  performing  on  a  dumb  church  organ.  Her  son  thought 
so  (it  was  an  old  thought  with  him),  while  he  took  his  seat 
beside  it. 

She  opened  a  drawer  or  two,  looked  over  some  business 
papers,  and  put  them  back  again.  Her  severe  face  had  no 
thread  of  relaxation  in  it,  by  which  any  explorer  could  have 
been  guided  to  the  gloomy  labyrinth  of  her  thoughts. 

*'  Shall  I  speak  of  our  affairs,  mother?  Are  you  inclined 
to  enter  upon  business  ? " 

**  Am  I  inclined,  Arthur  ?  Rather,  are  you  ?  Your  father 
has  been  dead  a  year  and  more.  I  have  been  at  your  dis- 
posal, and  waiting  your  pleasure,  ever  since." 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


53 


"  There  was  much  to  arrange  before  I  could  leave  ;  and 
when  I  did  leave,  I  traveled  a  little  for  rest  and  relief." 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  as  not  having  heard  or 
understood  his  last  words. 

"  For  rest  and  relief." 

She  glanced  round  the  somber  room,  and  appeared 
from  the  motion  of  her  lips  to  repeat  the  words  to  her- 
self, as  calling  it  to  witness  how  little  of  either  it  afforded 
her. 

'^  Besides,  mother,  you  being  sole  executrix,  and  having 
the  direction  and  management  of  the  estate,  there  remained 
little  business,  or  I  might  say  none,  that  I  could  transact, 
until  you  had  had  time  to  arrange  matters  to  your  satisfac- 
tion." 

"  The  accounts  are  made  out,"  she  returned,  '^  I  have 
them  here.  The  vouchers  have  all  been  examined  and 
passed.  You  can  inspect  them  when  you  like,  Arthur  ;  now 
if  you  please." 

'*  It  is  quite  enough,  mother,  to  know  that  the  business  is 
completed.     Shall  I  proceed  then  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  she  said,  in  her  frozen  way. 

"  Mother,  our  house  has  done  less  and  less  for  some 
years  past,  and  our  dealings  have  been  progressively  on  the 
decline.  We  have  never  shown  much  confidence,  or  invited 
much  ;  we  have  attached  no  people  to  us  ;  the  track  we 
have  kept  is  not  the  track  of  the  time  ;  and  we  have  been 
left  far  behind.  I  need  not  dwell  on  this  to  you,  mother. 
You  know  it,  necessarily." 

^*  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  answered,  in  a  qualified 
tone. 

^'  Even  this  old  house  in  which  we  speak,"  pursued  her 
son,  ^'  is  an  instance  of  what  I  say.  In  my  father's  earlier 
time,  and  in  his  uncle's  time  before  him,  it  was  a  place  of 
business — really  a  place  of  business,  and  business  resort. 
Now,  it  is  a  mere  anomaly  and  incongruity  here,  out  of  date 
and  out  of  purpose.  All  our  consignments  have  long  been 
made  to  Rovinghams'  the  commission-merchants  ;  and 
although,  as  a  check  upon  them,  and  in  the  stewardship  of 
my  father's  resources  your  judgment  and  watchfulness  have 
been  actively  exerted,  still  those  qualities  would  have 
influenced  my  father's  fortunes  equally,  if  you  had  lived  in 
any  private  dwelling  :  would  they  not  ?  " 

*'  Do  you  consider,"  she  returned,  without  answering  his 
question.  "  that  5l  house  serves  no  purpose,  Arthur,  in  shel- 


54 


LITTLE  DORRrr. 


tering  your  infirm  and  afflicted — justly  infirm  and  righteously 
afflicted  mother?" 

"  I  was  speaking  only  of  business  purposes.'* 

''  With  what  object  ?  " 

*'I  am  coming  to  it." 

"  I  foresee,"  she  returned,  fixing  her  eyes  upon  him,  "  what 
it  is.  But  the  Lord  forbid  that  I  should  repine  under  any 
visitation.  In  my  sinfulness  I  merit  bitter  disappointment, 
and  I  accept  it." 

*'  Mother,  I  grieve  to  hear  you  speak  like  this,  though  I 
have  had  my  apprehensions  that  you  would — " 

"  You  know  I  would.     You  know  me,''  she  interrupted. 

Her  son  paused  for  a  moment.  He  had  struck  fire  out  of 
her,  and  was  surprised. 

^m  Well  !  "  she  said,  relapsing  into  stone.  ^*  Go  on.  Let 
me  hear." 

"  You  have  anticipated,  mother,  that  I  decide  for  my  part, 
to  abandon  the  business.  I  have  done  with  it.  I  will  not 
take  upon  myself  to  advise  you  :  you  will  continue  it,  I  see. 
If  I  had  any  influence  with  you,  I  would  simply  use  it  to 
soften  your  judgment  of  me  in  causing  you  this  disappoint- 
ment ;  to  represent  to  you  that  I  have  lived  the  half  of  a  long 
term  of  life,  and  have  never  before  set  my  own  will  against 
yours.  I  can  not  say  that  I  have  been  able  to  conform 
myself,  in  heart  and  spirit,  to  your  rules  ;  I  can  not  say  that 
I  believe  my  forty  years  have  been  profitable  or  pleasant  to 
myself,  or  any  one  ;  but  I  have  habitually  submitted,  and  I 
only  ask  you  to  remember  it." 

Woe  to  the  suppliant,  if  such  a  one  there  were  or  ever  had 
been  who  had  any  concession  to  look  for  in  the  inexorable 
face  at  the  cabinet.  .  Woe  to  the  defaulter  whose  appeal  lay 
to  the  tribunal  where  those  severe  eyes  presided.  Great  need 
had  the  rigid  woman  of  her  mystical  religion,  veiled  in  gloom 
and  darkness,  with  lightnings  of  cursing,  vengeance,  and 
destruction,  flashing  through  the  sable  clouds.  Forgive  us 
our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors,  was  a  prayer  too  poor  in 
spirit  for  her.  Smite  Thou  my  debtors,  Lord,  wither  them, 
crush  them;  do  Thou  as  I  would  do,  and  Thou  shalt  have  my 
worship  :  this  was  the  impious  tower  of  stone  she  built  up  to 
scale  heaven. 

*^  Have  you  finished,  Arthur,  or  have  you  any  thing  more 
to  say  to  me  ?  I  think  there  can  be  nothing  else.  You  have 
been  short,  but  full  of  matter  !  " 

"  Mother,  I  have  yet  something  more  to  say.     It  has  been 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  55 

upon  my  mind,  night  and  day,  this  long  time.  It  is  far  more 
difficult  to  say  than  what  I  have  said.  That  concerned 
myself;  this  concerns  us  all.'* 

"  Us  all  !     Who  are  us  all  ?  " 

"  Yourself,  myself,  my  dear  father." 

She  took  her  hands  from  the  desk  ;  folded  them  in  her 
lap  ;  and  sat  looking  toward  the  fire,  with  the  impenetrabil- 
ity of  an  old  Egyptian  sculpture. 

"  You  know  my  father  infinitely  better  than  I  ever  knew 
him  ;  and  his  reserve  with  me  yielded  to  you.  You  were 
much  the  stronger,  mother,  and  directed  him.  As  a  child,  I 
knew  it  as  well  as  I  know  it  know.  I  knew  that  your  ascen- 
dency over  him  was  the  cause  of  his  going  to  China  to  take 
care  of  the  business  there,  while  you  took  care  of  it  here 
(though  I  do  not  even  now  know  whether  these  were  really 
terms  of  separation  that  you  agreed  upon)  ;  and  that  it  was 
your  will  that  I  should  remain  with  you  until  I  was  twenty, 
and  then  go  to  him  as  I  did.  You  will  not  be  offended  by 
my  recalling  this,  after  twenty  years  ? " 

*'  I  am  waiting  to  hear  why  you  recall  it." 

He  lowered  his  voice,  and  said,  with  manifest  reluctance, 
and  against  his  will : 

*^  1  want  to  ask  you,  mother,  whether  it  ever  occurred  to 
you  to  suspect — " 

At  the  word  suspect,  she  turned  her  eyes  momentarily 
upon  her  son,  with  a  dark  frown.  She  then  suffered  them  to 
seek  the  fire,  as  before  ;  but  with  the  frown  fixed  above  them, 
as  if  the  sculptor  of  old  Egypt  had  indented  it  in  the  hard 
granite  face,  to  frown  for  ages. 

^* — that  he  had  any  secret  remembrance  which  caused  him 
trouble  of  mind — remorse  ?  Whether  you  ever  observed  any 
thing  in  his  conduct  suggesting  that  ;  or  ever  spoke  to  him 
upon  it,  or  ever  heard  him  hint  at  such  a  thing  ?  " 

*^  I  do  not  understand  what  kind  of  secret  remembrance 
you  mean  to  infer  that  your  father  was  a  prey  to,"  she 
returned,  after  a  silence.     **  You  speak  so  mysteriously." 

"  Is  it  possible,  mother,"  her  son  leaned  forward  to  be  the 
nearer  to  her  v/hile  he  whispered  it,  and  laid  his  hand  nerv- 
ously upon  her  desk,  "  is  it  possible,  mother,  that  he  had 
unhappily  wronged  any  one,  and  made  no  reparation  ?  " 

Looking  at  him  wrathfully,  she  bent  herself  back  in  her 
chair  to  keep  him  further  off,  but  gave  him  no  reply. 

^'  I  am  deeply  sensible,  mother,  that  if  this  thought  has 
n^YQv  at  any  time  flashed  upon  you,  it  must  seem  cruel  and 


56  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

unnatural  in  me,  even  in  this  confidence,  to  breathe  it.  But  I 
can  not  shake  it  off.  Time  and  change  (I  have  tried  both  be- 
fore breaking  silence)  do  nothing  to  wear  it  out.  Remember, 
I  was  with  my  father.  Remember,  I  saw  his  face  when  he 
gave  the  watch  into  my  keeping,  and  struggled  to  express  that 
he  sent  it  as  a  token  you  would  understand,  to  you.  Remem- 
ber, I  saw  him  at  the  last  with  the  pencil  in  his  failing  hand, 
trying  to  write  some  word  for  you  to  read,  but  to  which  he 
could  give  no  shape.  The  more  remote  and  cruel  this  vagu-e 
suspicion  that  I  have,  the  stronger  the  circumstances  that 
could  give  it  any  semblance  of  probability  to  me.  For  heav- 
en's sake,  let  us  examine  sacredly  whether  there  is  any  wrong 
entrusted  to  us  to  set  aright.  No  one  can  help  toward  it, 
mother,  but  you." 

Still  so  recoiling  in  her  chair  that  her  overpoised  weight 
moved  it,  from  time  to  time,  a  little  on  its  wheels,  and  gave 
her  the  appearance  of  a  phantom  of  fierce  aspect  gliding 
away  from  him,  she  interposed  her  left  arm,  bent  at  the  el- 
bow with  the  back  of  her  hand  toward  her  face,  between 
herself  and  him,  and  looked  at  him  in  a  fixed  silence. 

"  In  grasping  at  money  and  in  driving  hard  bargains — I 
have  begun,  and  I  must  speak  of  such  things  now,  mother — 
some  one  may  have  been  grievously  deceived,  injured, 
ruined.  You  were  the  moving  power  of  all  this  machinery 
before  my  birth;  your  stronger  spirit  has  been  infused  into 
all  my  father's  dealings,  for  more  than  two  score  years.  You 
can  set  these  doubts  at  rest,  I  think,  if  you  will  really  help 
me  to  discover  the  truth.     Will  you,  mother  ?  " 

He  stopped  in  the  hope  that  she  would  speak.  But  her 
gray  hair  was  not  more  immovable  in  its  two  folds,  than 
were  her  firm  lips. 

"  If  reparation  can  be  made  to  any  one,  if  restitution  can 
be  made  to  any  one,  let  us  know  it  and  make  it.  Nay, 
mother,  if  within  my  means,  let  7ne  make  it.  I  have  seen  so 
little  happiness  come  of  money;  it  has  brought  within  my 
knowledge  so  little  peace  to  this  house,  or  to  any  one  belong- 
ing to  it;  that  it  is  worth  less  to  me  than  to  another.  It  can 
buy  me  nothing  that  will  not  be  a  reproach  and  misery  to 
me,  if  I  am  haunted  by  a  suspicion  that  it  darkened  my 
father's  last  hours  with  remorse,  and  that  it  is  not  honestly 
and  justly  mine." 

There  was  a  bell-rope  hanging  on  the  paneled  wall,  some 
two  or  three  yards  from  the  cabinet.  By  a  swift  and  sudden 
action  of  her  foot,  she  drove  her  wheeled  chair  rapidly  back 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  57 

to  it  and  pulled  it  violently — still  holding  her  arm  up  in  its 
shield-like  posture,  as  if  he  were  striking  at  her,  and  she 
warding  off  the  blow. 

A  girl  came  hurrying  in,  frightened. 

''  Send  Flintwinch  here  !  " 

In  a  moment  the  girl  had  withdrawn,  and  the  old  man  stood 
within  the  door.  ^'  What!  You're  hammer  and  tongs,  already, 
you  two  ?  "  he  said,  coolly  stroking  his  face.  *'  I  thought 
you  would  be.     I  was' pretty  sure  of  it." 

'^  Flintwinch  !  "  said  the  mother,  '*  look  at  my  son.  Look 
at  him  !  " 

''  Well  !     I  am  looking  at  him,"  said  Flintwinch. 

She  stretched  out  the  arm  with  which  she  had  shielded 
herself,  and  as  she  went  on,  pointed  at  the  object  of  her 
anger. 

'^  In  the  very  hour  of  his  return  almost — before  the  shoe 
upon  his  foot  is  dry,  he  asperses  his  father's  memory  to  his 
mother!  Asks  his  mother  to  become,  with  him,  a  spy  upon 
his  father's  transactions  through  a  lifetime  !  Has  misgivings 
that  the  goods  of  this  world  which  we  have  painfully  got  to- 
gether early  and  late,  with  wear  and  tear,  and  toil  and  self- 
denial,  are  so  much  plunder;  and  asks  to  whom  they  shall 
be  given  up,  as  reparation  and  restitution  !  " 

Although  she  said  this  raging,  she  said  it  in  a  voice  so  far 
from  being  beyond  her  control,  that  it  was  even  lower  than 
her  usual  tone.     She  also  spoke  with  great  distinctness. 

'*  Reparation!  "  said  she.  ^'  Yes,  truly!  It  is  easy  for  him 
to  talk  of  reparation,  fresh  from  journeying  and  junketing 
in  foreign  lands,  and  living  a  life  of  vanity  and  pleasure. 
But  let  him  look  at  me,  in  prison,  and  in  bonds  here.  I  en- 
dure without  HQurmuring,  because  it  is  appointed  that  I  shall 
so  make  reparation  for  my  sins.  Reparation  !  Is  there 
none  in  this  room  ?  Has  there  been  none  here  this  fifteen 
years  ?  " 

Thus  was  she  always  balancing  her  bargains,  with  the  Ma- 
jesty of  Heaven,  posting  up  the  entries  to  her  credit,  strictly 
keeping  her  set-off,  and  claiming  her  due.  She  was  only  re- 
markable in  this,  for  the  force  and  emphasis  with  which  she 
did  it.  Thousands  upon  thousands  do  it,  according  to  their 
varying  manner,  every  day. 

"  Flintwinch,  give  me  that  book  !  " 

The  old  man  handed  it  to  her  from  the  table.  She  put  two 
fingers  between  the  leaves,  closed  the  book  upon  them,  and 
held  it  up  to  her  son  in  a  threatening  way. 


58  LITTLE  DORRIT 

^'  In  the  days  of  old,  Arthur,  treated  of  in  this  commentary, 
there  were  pious  men,  beloved  of  the  Lord,  who  would  have 
cursed  their  sons  for  less  than  this  ;  who  would  have  sent 
them  forth  and  sent  whole  nations  forth,  if  such  had  supported 
them,  to  be  avoided  of  God  and  man,  and  perish,  down  to  the 
baby  at  the  breast.  But  I  only  tell  you  that  if  you  ever  renew 
that  theme  with  me,  I  will  renounce  you;  I  will  so  dismiss 
you  through  that  doorway,  that  you  had  better  have  been 
motherless  from  your  cradle.  I  will  never  see  or  know  you 
more.  And  if,  after  all,  you  were  to  come  into  this  darkened 
room  to  look  upon  me  lying  dead,  my  body  should  bleed,  if 
I  could  make  it,  when  you  came  near  me." 

In  part  relieved  by  the  intensity  of  this  threat,  and  in 
part  (monstrous  as  the  fact  is)  by  a  general  impression  that 
it  was  in  some  sort  a  religious  proceeding,  she  handed  back 
the  book  to  the  old  man,  and  was  silent. 

''Now,"  said  Jeremiah  ;  ''premising  that  I'm  not  going 
to  stand  between  you  two,  will  you  let  me  ask  (as  I  /lav^ 
been  called  in,  and  made  a  third)  what  is  all  this  about  ?  " 

"  Take  your  version  of  it,"  returned  Arthur,  finding  it  left 
to  him  to  speak,  "  from  my  mother.  Let  it  rest  there. 
What  I  have  said,  was  said  to  my  mother  only." 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  the  old  man.  "  From  your  mother  ? 
Take  it  from  your  mother  ?  Well  !  But  your  mother  men- 
tioned that  you  had  been  suspecting  your  father.  That's 
not  dutiful,  Mr.  Arthur.  Who  will  you  be  suspecting 
next  ? " 

"  Enough,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  turning  her  face  so  that 
it  was  addressed  for  the  moment  to  the  old  man  only.  "  Let 
no  more  be  said  about  this." 

"  Yes,  but  stop  a  bit,  stop  a  bit,"  the  old  man  persisted. 
*'  Let  us  see  how  we  stand.  Have  you  told  Mr.  Arthur,  that 
he  mustn't  lay  offenses  at  his  father's  door  ?  That  he  has  no 
right  to  do  it  ?     That  he  has  no  ground  to  go  upon  ?  " 

"  I  tell  him  so  now." 

"  Ah  !  Exactly,"  said  the  old  man.  "  You  tell  him  so 
now.  You  hadn't  told  him  so  before,  and  you  tell  him  so 
now.  Ay,  ay  !  That's  right  !  You  know  I  stood  between 
you  and  his  father,  so  long,  that  it  seems  as  if  death  had 
made  no  difference,  and  I  was  still  standing  between  you. 
So  I  will,  and  so  in  fairness  I  require  to  have  that  plainly 
put  forward.  Arthur,  you  please  to  hear  that  you  have  no 
right  to  mistrust  your  father,  and  have  no  ground  to  go 
upon." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  59 

He  put  his  hands  to  the  back  of  the  wheeled  chair,  and 
muttering  to  himself,  slowly  wheeled  his  mistress  back  to 
her  cabinet.  "Now,"  he  resumed,  standing  behind  her: 
"  in  case  I  should  go  away  leaving  things  half  done,  and  so 
should  be  wanted  again  when  you  come  to  the  other  half 
and  get  into  one  of  your  flights,  has  Arthur  told  you  what 
he  means  to  do  about  the  business  ?  " 

"  He  has  relinquished  it." 

"  In  favor  of  nobody,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Mrs.  Clennam  glanced  at  her  son,  leaning  against  one  of 
the  windows.  He  observed  the  look  and  said,  '^  To  my 
mother,  of  course.     She  does  what  she  pleases." 

"  And  if  any  pleasure,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause, 
"  could  arise  for  me  out  of  the  disappointment  of  my 
expectations,  that  my  son,  in  the  prime  of  his  life  would 
infuse  new  youth  and  strength  into  it,  and  make  it  of  great 
profit  and  power,  it  would  be  in  advancing  an  old  and  faith- 
ful servant.  Jeremiah,  the  captain  deserts  the  ship,  but  you 
and  I  will  sink  or  float  with  it." 

Jeremiah,  whose  eyes  glistened  as  if  they  saw  money, 
darted  a  sudden  look  at  the  son,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  I 
owe  yoi^  no  thanks  for  this;  you  have  done  nothing  toward 
it  !  "  and  then  told  the  mother  that  he  thanked  her,  and 
that  Affery  thanked  her,  and  that  he  would  never  desert 
her,  and  that  Affery  would  never  desert  her.  Finally,  he 
hauled  up  his  watch  from  its  depths,  said  '*  Eleven.  Time 
for  your  oysters  !  "  and  with  that  change  of  subject,  which 
involved  no  change  of  expression  or  manner,  rang  the  bell. 

But  Mrs.  Clennam,  resolved  to  treat  herself  with  the 
greater  rigor  for  having  been  supposed  to  be  unacquainted 
with  reparation,  refused  to  eat  her  oysters  when  they  were 
brought.  They  looked  tempting;  eight  in  number,  circularly 
set  out  on  a  white  plate  on  a  tray  covered  with  a  white  nap- 
kin, flanked  by  a  slice  of  buttered  French  roll,  and  a  little 
compact  glass  of  cool  wine  and  water;  but  she  resisted  all 
persuasions,  and  sent  them  down  again — placing  the  act  to 
her  credit,  no  doubt,  in  her  Eternal  Day-book. 

This  refection  of  oysters  was  not  presided  over  by  Affery, 
but  by  the  girl  who  had  appeared  when  the  bell  was  rung  ; 
the  same  who  had  been  in  the  dimly-lighted  room  last 
night.  Now  that  he  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  her, 
Arthur  found  that  her  diminutive  figure,  small  features, 
and  slight  spare  dress,  gave  her  the  appearance  of  being 
much  younger  than   she  was.     A  woman,  probably  of  not 


6o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

less  than  two-and-twenty,  she  might  have  been  passed  in  tht 
street  for  little  more  than  half  that  age.  Not  that  her  face 
was  very  youthful,  for  in  truth  there  v/as  more  consideration 
and  care  in  it  than  naturally  belong  to  her  utmost  years  ; 
but  she  was  so  little  and  light,  so  noiseless  and  shy,  and 
appeared  so  conscious  of  being  out  of  place  among  the  three 
hard  elders,  that  she  had  all  the  manner  and  much  of  the 
appearance  of  a  subdued  child. 

In  a  hard  way,  and  in  an  uncertain  way  that  fluctuated  be- 
tween patronage  and  putting  down,  the  sprinkling  from  a 
watering-pot  and  hydraulic  pressure,  Mrs.  Clennam  showed 
an  interest  in  this  dependent.  Even  in  the  moment  of  her 
entrance  upon  the  violent  ringing  of  the  bell,  when  the  mother 
shielded  herself  with  that  singular  action  from  the  son,  Mrs. 
Clennam's  eyes  had  had  some  individual  recognition  in  them, 
which  seemed  reserved  for  her.  As  there  are  degrees  of 
hardness  in  the  hardest  metal,  and  shades  of  color  in  black 
itself,  so,  even  in  the  asperity  of  Mrs.  Clennam's  demeanor 
toward  all  the  rest  of  humanity  and  toward  Little  Dorrit, 
there  was  a  fine  gradation. 

Little  Dorrit  let  herself  out  to  do  needlework.  At  so 
much  a  day — or  at  so  little — from  eight  to  eight,  Little 
Dorrit  was  to  be  hired.  Punctual  to  the  moment,  Little 
Dorrit  appeared  ;  punctual  to  the  moment,  Little  Dorrit 
vanished.  What  became  of  Little  Dorrit  between  the  two 
eights,  was  a  mystery. 

Another  of  the  moral  phenomena  of  Little  Dorrit.  Be- 
sides her  consideration  money,  her  daily  contract  included 
meals.  She  had  an  extraordinary  repugnance  to  dining  in 
company  ;  would  never  do  so,  if  it  were  possible  to  escape. 
Would  always  plead  that  she  had  this  bit  of  work  to  begin 
first,  or  that  bit  of  work  to  finish  first  ;  and  would,  of  a 
certainty,  scheme  and  plan — not  very  cunningly,  it  v/ould 
seem,  for  she  deceived  no  one — to  dine  alone.  Successful 
in  this,  happy  in  carrying  off  her  plate  anywhere,  to  make 
a  table  of  her  lap,  or  a  box,  or  the  ground,  or  even,  as  was 
supposed,  to  stand  on  tiptoe,  dining  moderately  at  a 
mantel-shelf  ;  the  great  anxiety  of  Little  Dorrit's  day  was  set 
at  rest. 

It  was  not  easy  to  make  out  Little  Dorrit's  face  ;  she  was 
so  retiring,  plied  her  needle  in  such  removed  corners,  and 
started  away  so  scared  if  encountered  on  the  stairs.  But  it 
seemed  to  be  a  pale  transparent  face,  quick  in  expression, 
though  not  beautiful  in  feature,  its  soft  hazel  eyes  excepted. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  61 

A  delicately  bent  head,  a  tiny  form,  a  quick  little  pair  of 
busy  hands,  and  a  shabby  dress — it  must  needs  have  been 
very  shabby  to  look  at  all  so,  being  so  neat — were  Little 
Dorrit  as  she  sat  at  work. 

For  these  particulars  or  generalities  concerning  Little 
Dorrit,  Mr.  Arthur  was  indebted  in  the  course  of  the  day  to 
his  own  eyes  and  to  Mrs.  Affery's  tongue.  If  Mrs.  Affery 
had  had  any  will  or  way  of  her  own,  it  would  probably  have 
been  unfavorable  to  Little  Dorrit.  But  as  *'  them  two  clever 
ones  " — Mrs.  Affery's  perpetual  reference,  in  whom  her  per- 
sonality was  swallowed  up — were  agreed  to  accept  Little 
Dorrit  as  a  matter  of  course,  she  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
follow  suit.  Similarly,  if  the  two  clever  ones  had  agreed  to 
murder  Little  Dorrit  by  candlelight,  Mrs.  Affery,  being  re- 
quired to  hold  the  candle,  would  no  doubt  have  done  it. 

In  the  intervals  of  roasting  the  partridge  for  the  invalid 
chamber,  and  preparing  a  baking-dish  of  beef  and  pudding 
for  the  dining-room,  Mrs.  Affery  made  the  communications 
above  set  forth  ;  invariably  putting  her  head  in  at  the  door 
again  after  she  had  taken  it  out,  to  enforce  resistance  to  the 
two  clever  ones.  It  appeared  to  have  become  a  perfect  pas- 
sion with  Mrs.  Flintwinch,  that  the  only  son  should  be  pitted 
against  them. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  too,  Arthur  looked  through  the 
whole  house.  Dull  and  dark  he  found  it.  The  gaunt  rooms, 
deserted  for  years  upon  years,  seemed  to  have  settled  down 
into  a  gloomy  lethargy  from  which  nothing  could  rouse  them 
again.  The  furniture,  at  once  spare  and  lumbering,  hid  in 
the  rooms  rather  than  furnished  themx,  and  there  was  no 
color  in  all  the  house  ;  such  color  as  had  ever  been  there, 
had  long  ago  started  away  on  lost  sunbeams — got  itself  ab- 
sorbed, perhaps,  into  flowers,  butterflies,  plumage  of  birds, 
precious  stones,  what  not.  There  was  not  one  straight  floor, 
from  the  foundation  to  the  roof ;  the  ceilings  were  so  fan- 
tastically clouded  by  smoke  and  dust,  that  old  women  might 
have  told  fortunes  in  them  better  than  in  grouts  of  tea  ;  the 
dead-cold  hearths  showed  no  traces  of  having  ever  been 
warmed,  but  in  heaps  of  soot  that  had  tumbled  down  the 
chimneys,  and  eddied  about  in  little  dusky  whirhvinfls  when 
the  doors  were  opened.  In  what  had  once  been  a  drawing- 
room,  there  were  a  pair  of  meager  mirrors,  with  dismal 
processions  of  black  figures  carrying  black  garlands,  walking 
round  the  frames  ;  but  even  these  were  short  of  heads  and 
legs,  and  one  undertaker-like  Cupid  had  swung  round  on  his 


62  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

own  axis  and  got  upside  down,  and  another  had  fallen  off  al- 
together.  The  room  Arthur  Clennam's  deceased  father  had 
occupied  for  business  purposes,  when  he  first  remembered 
him,  was  so  unaltered  that  he  might  have  been  imagined 
still  to  keep  it  invisibly,  as  his  visible  relict  kept  her 
room  up  stairs  ;  Jeremiah  Flintwinch  still  going  be- 
tween them  negotiating.  His  picture,  dark  and  gloomy, 
earnestly  speechless  on  the  wall,  with  the  eyes  intently 
looking  at  his  son  as  -they  had  looked  when  Hfe  de- 
parted from  them,  seemed  to  urge  him  awfully  to  the 
task  he  had  attempted ;  but  as  to  any  yielding  on  the 
part  of  his  mother,  he  had  now  no  hope,  and  as  to  any 
other  means  of  setting  his  distrust  at  rest,  he  had  abandoned 
hope  a  long  time.  Down  in  the  cellars,  as  up  in  the  bed- 
chambers, old  objects  that  he  well  remembered  were  changed 
by  age  and  decay,  but  were  still  in  their  old  places  ;  even  to 
empty  beer-casks  hoary  with  cobwebs,  and  empty  wine- 
bottles  with  fur  and  fungus  choking  up  their  throats.  There, 
too,  among  unused  bottle-racks  and  pale  slants  of  light  from 
the  yard  above,  was  the  strong  room  stored  with  old  ledgers, 
which  had  as  musty  and  corrupt  a  smell  as  if  they  were 
regularly  balanced,  in  the  dead  small  hours,  by  a  nightly 
resurrection  of  old  book-keepers. 

The  baking-dish  was  served  up  in  a  penitential  manner, 
on  a  shrunken  cloth  at  an  end  of  the  dining-table,  at  two 
o'clock  ;  when  he  dined  with  Mr.  Flintwinch,  the  new  partner. 
Mr.  Flintwinch  informed  him  that  his  mother  had  recovered 
her  equanimity  now,  and  that  he  need  not  fear  her  again 
alluding  to  what  had  passed  in  the  morning.  ''And  don't 
you  lay  offenses  at  your  father's  door,  Mr.  Arthur,"  added 
Jeremiah,  *'  once  for  all,  don't  do  it  !  Now,  we  have  done 
with  the  subject." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  had  been  already  re-arranging  and  dusting 
his  own  particular  little  office,  as  if  to  do  honor  to  his  acces- 
sion to  new  dignity.  He  resumed  this  occupation  when  he 
was  replete  with  beef,  had  sucked  up  all  the  gravy  in  the 
baking-dish  with  the  flat  of  his  knife,  and  had  drawn  liberally 
on  a  barrel  of  small  beer  in  the  scullery.  Thus  refreshed,  he 
tucked  up  his  shirt-sleeves  and  went  to  work  again  ;  and  Mr. 
Arthur,  watching  him  as  he  set  about  it,  plainly  saw  that  his 
father's  picture,  or  his  father's  grave,  would  be  as  com- 
municative with  him  as  this  old  man. 

^'  Now,  Affery,  woman,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  as  she 
crossed  the  hall.  ''  You  hadn't  made  Mr.  Arthur's  bed  when 
I  was  up  there  last.     Stir  yourself.     Bustle," 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  63 

But  Mr.  Arthur  found  the  house  so  blank  and  dreary,  and 
was  so  unwilling  to  assist  at  another  implacable  consignment 
of  his  mother's  enemies  (perhaps  himself  among  them)  to 
mortal  disfigurement  and  immortal  ruin,  that  he  announced 
his  intention  of  lodging  at  the  coffee-house  where  he  had  left 
his  luggage.  Mr.  Flintwinch  taking  kindly  to  the  idea  of 
getting  rid  of  him,  and  his  mother  being  indifferent,  beyond 
considerations  of  saving,  to  most  domestic  arrangements  that 
were  not  bounded  by  the  walls  of  her  own  chamber,  he  easily 
carried  this  point  without  new  offense.  Daily  business  hours 
were  agreed  upon,  which  his  mother,  Mr.  Flintwinch,  and 
he,  were  to  devote  together  to  a  necessary  checking  of  books 
and  papers  ;  and  he  left  the  home  he  had  so  lately  found, 
with  a  depressed  heart. 

But  Little  Dorrit  ? 

The  business  hours,  allowing  for  intervals  of  invalid 
regimen  of  oysters  and  partridges,  during  which  Clennam 
refreshed  himself  with  a  walk,  were  from  ten  to  six  for  about 
a  fortnight.  Sometimes  Little  Dorrit  was  employed  at  her 
needle,  sometimes  not,  sometimes  appeared  as  a  humble 
visitor  :  which  must  have  been  her  character  on  the  occasion 
of  his  arrival.  His  original  curiosity  augmented  every  day, 
as  he  watched  for  her,  saw  or  did  not  see  her,  and  speculated 
about  her.  Influenced  by  his  predominant  idea,  he  even  fell 
into  a  habit  of  discussing  with  himself  the  possibility  of  her 
being  in  some  way  associated  with  it.  At  last  he  resolved  to 
watch  Little  Dorrit  and  know  more  of  her  story. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE    FATHER    OF    THE    MARSHALSEA. 

Thirty  years  ago,  there  stood,  a  few  doors  short  of  the 
church  of  Saint  George,  in  the  borough  of  Southwark,  on  the 
left-hand  side  of  the  way  going  southward,  the  Marshalsea 
Prison.  It  had  stood  there  many  years  before,  and  it 
remained  there  some  years  afterward  ;  but  it  is  gone  now, 
and  the  world  is  none  the  worse  without  it. 

It  was  an  oblong  pile  of  barrack  building,  partitioned  into 
squalid  houses  standing  back  to  back,  so  that  there  were  no 
back  rooms  ;  environed  by  a  narrow  paved  yard,  hemmed  in 
by  high  walls  duly  spiked  at  top.  Itself  a  close  and  confined 
prison  for  debtors,  it  contained  within  it  a  much  closer  and 


64  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

more  confined  jail  for  smugglers.  Offenders  against  the 
revenue  laws,  and  defaulters  to  excise  or  customs,  who  had 
incurred  fines  which  they  were  unable  to  pay,  were  supposed  - 
to  be  incarcerated  behind  an  iron-plated  door,  closing  up  a 
second  prison,  consisting  of  a  strong  cell  or  two,  and  a  blind 
alley  some  yard  and  a  half  wide,  which  formed  the  mysterious 
termination  of  the  very  limited  skittle-ground  in  which  the 
Marshalsea  debtors  bowled  down  their  troubles. 

-  Supposed  to  be  incarcerated  there,  because  the  time  had 
rather  outgrown  the  strong  cells  and  the  blind  alley.  In 
practice  they  had  come  to  be  considered  a  little  too  bad, 
though  in  theory' they  were  quite  as  good  as  ever;  which  may 
be  observed  to  be  the  case  at  the  present  day  with  other  cells 
that  are  not  at  all  strong,  and  with  other  blind  alleys  that 
are  stone-blind.  Hence  the  smugglers  habitually  consorted 
with  the  debtors  (who  received  them  with  open  arms),  except 
at  certain  constitutional  moments  when  somebody  came  from 
some  ofhce,  to  go  through  some  form  of  overlooking  some- 
thing, which  neither  he  nor  any  body  else  knew  any  thing 
about.  On  those  truly  British  occasions,  the  smugglers,  if 
any,  made  a  feint  of  walking  into  strong  cells  and  the  blind 
alley,  while  this  somebody  pretended  to  do  his  something; 
and  made  a  reality  of  walking  out  again  as  soon  as  he  hadn't 
done  it — neatly  epitomizing  the  administration  of  most  of  the 
public  affairs,  in  our  right  little,  tight  little  island. 

There  had  been  taken  to  the  Marshalsea  Prison,  long 
before  the  day  when  the  sun  shone  on  Marseilles  and  on  the 
opening  of  this  narrative,  a  debtor  with  whom  this  narrative 
has  some  concern. 

He  was  at  that  time,  a  very  amiable  and  very  helpless 
middle-aged  gentleman,  who  was  going  out  again  directly. 
Necessarily,  he  was  going  out  again  directly,  because  the 
Marshalsea  lock  never  turned  upon  a  debtor  who  was  not. 
He  brought  in  a  portmanteau  with  him,  which  he  doubted  its 
being  worth  while  to  unpack;  he  was  so  perfectly  clear — like 
all  the  rest  of  them,  the  turnkey  on  the  lock  said — that  he 
was  going  out  again  directly. 

He  was  a  shy,  retiring  man;  well-looking,  though  in  an 
effeminate  style;  with  a  mild  voice,  curling  hair,  and  irreso- 
lute hands— rings  upon  the  fingers  in  those  days — which 
nervously  wandered  to  his  trembling  lip  a  hundred  times,  in 
the  first  half-hour  of  his  acquaintance  with  the  jail.  His 
principal  anxiety  was  about  his  wife. 

"  Do  you  think,  sir,"  he  asked  the  turnkey,  **  that  she  will 


J 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  65 

be  very  much  shocked,  if  she  should  come  to  the  gate  to- 
morrow morning  ?  " 

The  turnkey  gave  it  as  the  result  of  his  experience  that 
some  of  'em  was  and  some  of  'em  wasn't.  In  general,  more 
no  than  yes.  *'  What  like  is  she,  you  see  ? "  he  philosophi- 
cally asked:  '^  that's  what  it  hinges  on." 

*'  She  is  very  delicate  and  inexperienced  indeed.** 

^*  That,"  said  the  turnkey,  ''  is  agen  her." 

*'  She  is  so  little  used  to  go  out  alone,"  said  the  debtor, 
**  that  I  am  at  a  loss  to  think  how  she  will  ever  make  her  way 
here,  if  she  walks." 

"  P'raps,"  quoth  the  turnkey,  "  she'll  take  a'ackney-coach." 

"  Perhaps."  The  irresolute  fingers  went  to  the  trembling 
lip.     ^^  I  hope  she  will.     She  may  not  think  of  it." 

**  Or  p'raps,"  said  the  turnkey,  offering  his  suggestions 
from  the  top  of  his  well-worn  wooden  stool,  as  he  might  have 
offered  them  to  a  child  for  whose  weakness  he  felt  a  com- 
passion, **  p'raps  she'll  get  her  brother,  or  her  sister,  to  come 
along  with  her." 

*'  She  has  no  brother  or  sister." 

"  Niece,  nevy,  cousin,  serwant,  young  'ooman,  greengrocer. 
— Dash  it!  One  or  another  on  'em,"  said  the  turnkey,  repu- 
diating beforehand  the  refusal  of  all  his  suggestions. 

**  I  fear — I  hope  it  is  not  against  the  rules — that  she  will 
bring  the  children." 

'*  The  children  ?  "  said  the  turnkey.  **  And  the  rules  ? 
Why,  Lord  set  you  up  like  a  corner  pin,  we've  a  reg'lar  play- 
ground o'  children  here.  Children  ?  Why,  we  swarm  with 
'em.     How  many  a  you  got  ?  " 

''Two,"  said  the  debtor,  lifting  his  irresolute  hand  to  his 
lip  again,  and  turning  into  the  prison. 

The  turnkey  followed  him  with  his  eyes.  "  And  you 
another,"  he  observed  to  himself,  ''  which  makes  three  on 
you.  And  your  wnfe  another,  I'll  lay  crown.  Which  makes 
four  on  you.  And  another  coming,  I'll  lay  a  half-a-crown. 
Which'll  make  five  on  you.  And  I'll  go  another  seven  and 
sixpence  to  name  which  is  the  helplessest,  the  unborn  baby 
or  you  !  " 

He  was  right  in  all  his  particulars.  She  came  next  day 
with  a  little  boy  of  three  years  old,  and  a  little  girl  of  two, 
and  he  stood  entirely  corroborated. 

"  Got  a  room  now;  haven't  you  ?  "  the  turnkey  asked  the 
debtor  after  a  week  or  two. 

^*  Yes,  I  have  got  a  very  good  room." 


66  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Any  little  sticks  a  coming,  to  furnish  it  ?  "  said  the  turn- 
key. 

^'  I  expect  a  few  necessary  articles  of  furniture  to  be 
delivered  by  the  carrier,  this  afternoon.** 

^'  Missis  and  little  'uns  a  coming,  to  keep  you  company  ?  *' 
asked  the  turnkey. 

*'  Why,  yes,  we  think  it  better  that  we  should  not  be  scat- 
tered, even  for  a  few  weeks." 

*'  Even  for  a  few  weeks,  of  course,**  replied  the  turnkey. 
And  he  followed  him  again  with  his  eyes,  and  nodded  his 
head  seven  times  when  he  was  gone. 

The  affairs  of  tliis  debtor  were  perplexed  by  a  partnership, 
of  which  he  knew  no  more  than  that  he  had  invested  money 
in  it;  by  legal  matters  of  assignment  and  settlement,  convey- 
ance here  and  conveyance  there,  suspicion  of  unlawful  pref- 
erence of  creditors  in  this  direction,  and  of  mysterious 
spiriting  away  of  property  in  that;  and  as  nobody  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  could  be  more  incapable  of  explaining  any 
single  item  in  the  heap  of  confusion  than  the  debtor  himself, 
nothing  comprehensible  could  be  made  of  his  case.  To 
question  him  in  detail,  and  endeavor  to  reconcile  his  answers; 
to  closet  him  with  accountants  and  sharp  practitioners, 
learned  in  the  wiles  of  insolvency  and  bankruptcy;  was  only 
to  put  the  case  out  at  compound  interest  of  incomprehensi- 
bility. The  irresolute  fingers  fluttered  more  and  more  in- 
effectually about  the  trembling  lip  on  every  such  occasion, 
and  the  sharpest  practitioners  gave  him  up  as  a  hopeless 
job. 

''  Out  ?"  said  the  turnkey,  *'  he'W  never  get  out.  Unless 
his  creditors  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shove  him  out.** 

He  had  been  there  five  or  six  months,  when  he  came  run- 
ning to  this  turnkey  one  forenoon  to  tell  him,  breathless  and 
pale,  that  his  wife  was  ill. 

"  As  any  body  might  a  known  she  would  be,"  said  the 
turnkey. 

"  We  intended,"  he  returned,  "  that  she  should  go  to  a 
country  lodging  only  to-morrow.  What  am  I  to  do  I  Oh, 
good  heaven,  what  am  I  to  do  !" 

*^  Don't  waste  your  time  clasping  your  hands  and  biting 
your  fingers,'*  responded  the  practical  turnkey,  taking  him 
by  the  elbow,  *'  but  come  along  with  me." 

The  turnkey  conducted  him — trembling  from  head  to  foot, 
and  constantly  crying  under  his  breath,  What  was  he  to  do  ! 
while  his  irresolute  fingers  bedabbled  the  tears  upon  his  face 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  6| 

—up  one  of  the  common  staircases  in  the  prison,  to  a  door 
Oil  the  garret  story.  Upon  which  door  the  turnkey  knocked 
with  the  handle  of  his  key. 

^*  Come  in  !"  cried  a  voice  inside. 

The  turnkey  opening  the  door,  disclosed  in  a  wretched, 
ill-smelling  little  room,  two  hoarse,  puffy,  red-faced  person- 
ages seated  at  a  rickety  table,  playing  at  all-fours,  smoking 
pipes,  and  drinking  brandy. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  turnkey,  ^*  here's  a  gentleman's  wife 
in  want  of  you,  without  a  minute's  loss  of  time  !" 

The  doctor's  friend  was  in  the  positive  degree  of  hoarse- 
ness, puffiness,  red-facedness,  all-fours,  tobacco,  dirt  and 
brandy;  the  doctor  in  the  comparative — hoarser,  puffier,  more 
red-faced,  more  all-foury,  tobaccoer,  dirtier,  and  brandier. 
The  doctor  was  amazingly  shabby,  in  a  torn  and  darned 
rough-weather  sea-jacket,  out  at  elbows  and  eminently  short 
of  buttons  (he  had  been  in  his  time  the  experienced  surgeon 
carried  by  a  passenger  ship),  the  dirtiest  white  trowsers  con- 
ceivable by  mortal  man,  carpet  slippers,  and  no  visible  linen. 
''  Childbed  ?"  said  the  doctor.  ''  I'm  the  boy  !"  With  that 
the  doctor  took  a  comb  from  the  chimney-piece  and  "stuck 
his  hair  upright — which  appeared  to  be  his  way  of  washing 
himself — produced  a  professional  chest  or  case,  of  most 
abject  appearance,  from  the  cupboard  where  his  cup  and 
saucer  and  coals  were,  settled  his  chin  in  the  frowsy  wrapper 
round  his  neck,  and  became  a  ghastly  medical  scarecrow. 

The  doctor  and  the  debtor  ran  down  stairs,  leaving  the 
turnkey  to  return  to  the  lock,  and  made  for  the  debtor's 
room.  All  the  ladies  in  the  prison  had  got  hold  of  the  news, 
and  were  in  the  yard.  Some  of  them  had  already  taken 
possession  of  the  two  children,  and  were  hospitably  carrying 
them  off;  others  were  offering  loans  of  little  comforts  from 
their  own  scanty  store;  others  were  sympathizing  with  the 
greatest  volubility.  The  gentlemen  prisoners  feeling  them- 
selves at  a  disadvantage,  had  for  the  most  part  retired,  not 
to  say  sneaked,  to  their  rooms;  from  the  windows  of  which, 
some  of  them  now  complimented  the  doctor  with  whistles  as 
he  passed  below,  while  others,  with  several  stories  between 
them,  interchanged  sarcastic  references  to  the  prevalent  ex- 
citement. 

It  was  a  hot  summer  day,  and  the  prison  rooms  were  baking 
between  the  high  walls.  In  the  debtor's  confined  chamber, 
Mrs.  Bangham,  charwoman  and  messenger,  who  was  not  a 
prisoner  (though  she  had  been  once),  but  was  the  popular 


68  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

medium  of  communication  with  the  outer  world,  had  volun- 
teered her  services  as  fly-catcher  and  general  attendant.  The 
walls  and  ceiling  were  blackened  with  flies.  Mrs.  Bangham, 
expert  in  sudden  device,  with  one  hand  fanned  the  patient 
with  a  cabbage  leaf,  and  with  the  other  set  traps  of  vinegar 
and  sugar  in  gallipots;  at  the  same  time  enunciating  senti- 
ments of  an  encouraging  and  congratulatory  nature  adapted 
to  the  occasion. 

*'  The  flies  trouble  you,  don't  they,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Bangham.  "  But  p'raps  they'll  take  your  mind  off  of  it,  and 
do  you  good.  What  between  the  buryin'-ground,  the  groc- 
er's, the  wagon-stables,  and  the  paunch  trade,  the  Marshalsea 
flies  gets  very  large.  P'raps  they're  sent  as  a  consolation,  if 
we  only  know'd  it.  How  are  you  now,  my  dear  ?  No 
better  ?  No,  my  dear,  it  ain't  to  be  expected  ;  you'll  be 
worse  before  you're  better,  and  you  know  it,  don't  you  ? 
Yes.  That's  right  !  And  to  think  of  a  sweet  little  cherub 
being  born  inside  the  lock  !  Now  ain't  it  pretty,  ain't  that 
something  to  carry  you  through  it  pleasant  ?  Why  we  ain't 
had  such  a  thing  happen  here,  my  dear,  not  for  I  couldn't 
name^the  time  when.  And  you  a  crying  too  .»*  "  said  Mrs. 
Bangham,  to  rally  the  patient  more  and  more.  "  You  ! 
Making  yourself  so  famous  !  With  the  flies  a  falling  into 
the  gallipots  by  fifties  !  And  every  thing  a-going  on  so 
well  !  And  here  if  there  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Bangham  as  the 
door  opened,  "if  there  ain't  your  dear  gentleman  along  with 
Dr.  Haggage  !  And  now  indeed  we  are  complete,  I  think!'' 
-  The  doctor  was  scarcely  the  kind  of  apparition  to  inspire 
a  patient  with  a  sense  of  absolute  completeness,  but  as  he 
presently  delivered  the  opinion,  "  we  are  as  right  as  we  can 
be,  Mrs.  Bangham,  and  we  shall  come  out  of  this  like  a 
house  afire  ;  "  and  as  he  and  Mrs.  Bangham  took  posses- 
sion of  the  poor,  helpless  pair  as  every  body  else  and  any 
body  else  had  always  done  ;  the  means  at  hand  were  as 
good  on  the  whole  as  better  would  have  been.  The" special 
feature  in  Dr.  Haggage's  treatment  of  the  case,  was  his 
determination  to  keep  Mrs.  Bangham  up  to  the  mark.  As 
thus  : 

'^  Mrs.  Banghami,"  said  the  doctor,  before  he  had  been 
there  twenty  minutes,  ^'  go  outside  and  fetch  a  little  brandy, 
or  we  shall  have  you  giving  hi." 

*'  Thank  you,  sir.  But  none  on  my  account,"  said  Mrs. 
Bangham. 

**  Mrs.  Bangham,"  returned  the  doctor,  "  I  am  in  profes- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  69 

sional  attendance  on  this  lady,  and  don't  choose  to  allow 
any  discussion  on  your  part.  Go  outside  and  fetch  a  little 
brandy,  or  I  foresee  that  you'll  break  down." 

''  You're  to  be  obeyed,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bangham,  rising, 
^'  If  you  was  to  put  your  own  lips  to  it,  I  think  you  wouldn't 
be  the  worse,  for  you  look  but  poorly,  sir." 

''  Mrs.  Bangham,"  returned  the  doctor.  "  I  am  not  your 
business,  thank  you,  but  you  are  mine.  Never  you  mind 
me^  if  you  please.  What  you  have  got  to  do  is,  to  do  as 
you  are  told,  and  to  go  and  get  what  I  bid  you." 

Mrs.  Bangham  submitted  ;  and  the  doctor,  having 
administered  her  potion,  took  his  own.  He  repeated  the 
treatment  every  hour,  being  very  determined  with  Mrs. 
Bangham.  Three  or  four  hours  passed  ;  the  flies  fell  into 
the  traps  by  hundreds  ;  and  at  length  one  little  life,  hardly 
stronger  than  theirs,  appeared  among  the  multitude  of  lesser 
deaths. 

**  A  very  nice  little  girl  indeed,"  said  the  doctor  ;  **  little, 
but  well-formed.  Halloa,  Mrs.  Bangham  !  You're  looking 
queer  !  You  be  off,  ma'am,  this  minute,  and  fetch  a  little 
more  brandy,  or  we  shall  have  you  in  hysterics." 

By  this  time,  the  rings  had  begun  to  fall  from  the  debtor's 
irresolute  hands,  like  leaves  from  a  wintry  tree.  Not  one 
was  left  upon  them  that  night,  when  he  put  something  that 
chinked  into  the  doctor's  greasy  palm.  In  the  meantime 
Mrs.  Bangham  had  been  out  an  errand  to  a  neighboring 
establishment  decorated  with  three  golden  balls,  where  she 
was  very  well  known. 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  *^  thank  you.  Your  good 
lady  is  quite  composed.     Doing  charmingly." 

"  I  am  very  happy  and  very  thankful  to  know  it,"  said  the 
debtor,  ""  though  I  little  thought  once,  that — " 

**  That  a  child  would  be  born  to  you  in  a  place  like  this  T' 
said  the  doctor.  "  Bah,  bah,  sir,  what  does  it  signify  ?  A 
little  more  elbow-room  is  all  we  want  here.  We  are  quiet 
here  ;  we  don't  get  badgered  here  ;  there  is  no  knocker  here, 
sir,  to  be  hammered  at  by  creditors  and  bring  a  man's  heart 
into  his  mouth.  Nobody  comes  here  to  ask  if  a  man's  at 
home,  and  to  say  he'll  stand  on  the  door-mat  till  he  is. 
Nobody  writes  threatening  letters  about  money  to  this  place. 
It's  freedom,  sir,  it's  freedom  !  I  have  had  to-day's  practice 
at  home  and  abroad,  on  a  march,  and  aboard  ship,  and  I'll  tell 
you  this  :  I  don't  know  that  I  have  ever  pursued  it  under 
such  quiet  circumstances,  as  here  this  day.     Elsewhere,  peo- 


70  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

pie  are  restless,  worried,  hurried  about,  anxious  respecting 
one  thing,  anxious  respecting  another.  Nothing  of  the  kind 
here,  sir.  We  have  done  all  that — we  know  the  worst  of  it  ; 
we  have  got  to  the  bottom,  we  can't  fall,  and  what  have  we 
found?  Peace.  That's  the  word  for  it.  Peace."  With  this 
profession  of  faith,  the  doctor,  who  was  an  old  jail-bird,  and 
was  more  sodden  than  usual,  and  had  the  additional  and 
unusual  stimulus  of  money  in  his  pocket,  returned  to  his 
associate  and  chum  in  hoarseness,  puffiness,  red-facedness, 
all-fours,  tobacco,  dirt,  and  brandy. 

Now,  the  debtor  was  a  very  different  man  from  the 
doctor,  but  he  had  already  begun  to  travel,  by  his  opposite 
segment  of  the  circle,  to  the  same  point.  Crushed  at  first 
by  his  imprisonment,  he  had  soon  found  a  dull  relief  in  it. 
He  was  under  lock  and  key  ;  but  the  lock  and  key  that 
kept  him  in,  kept  numbers  of  his  troubles  out.  If  he  had 
been  a  man  with  strength  of  purpose  to  face  those  troubles 
and  fight  them,  he  might  have  broken  the  net  that  held  him, 
or  broken  his  heart  ;  but  being  what  he  was,  he  languidly 
slipped  into  this  smooth  descent,  and  never  more  took  one 
step  upward. 

When  he  was  relieved  of  the  perplexed  affairs  that  nothing 
would  make  plain,  through  having  them  returned  upon  his 
hands  by  a  dozen  agents  in  succession  who  could  make 
neither  beginning,  middle,  nor  end  of  them,  or  him,  he 
found  his  miserable  place  of  refuge  a  quieter  refuge  than  it 
had  been  before.  He  had  unpacked  the  portmanteau  long 
ago  ;  and  his  elder  children  now  played  regularly  about  the 
yard,  and  every  body  knew  the  baby,  and  claimed  a  kind  of 
proprietorship  in  her. 

**  Why,  I'm  getting  proud  of  you,"  said  his  friend  the  turn- 
key, one  day.  '^  You'll  be  the  oldest  inhabitant  soon.  The 
Marshalsea  wouldn't  be  like  the  Marshalsea  now,  without 
you  and  your  family." 

The  turnkey  really  was  proud  of  him.  He  would  mention 
him  in  laudatory  terms  to  new-comers,  when  his  back  was 
turned.  "  You  took  notice  of  him,"  he  would  say,  "  that 
went  out  of  the  lodge  just  now  ?  " 

New-comer  would  probably  answer  Yes. 

"  Brought  up  as  a  gentleman,  he  was,  if  ever  a  man  was. 
Ed'cated  at  no  end  of  expense.  Went  into  the  Marshal's 
house  once,  to  try  a  new  piano  for  him.  Played  it,  I  under- 
stand, like  one  o'clock— beautiful  !  As  to  languages — 
S'    iks  any  thing.     We've  had  Si  Frenchman  here  in  his  timC' 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  71 

and  it's  my  opinion  he  knowed  more  French  than  the 
Frenchman  did.  We've  had  an  Italian  here  in  his  time, 
and  he  shut  him  up  in  about  half  a  minute.  You'll  find 
some  characters  behind  other  locks,  I  don't  say  you  won't  ; 
but  if  you  want  the  top  sawyer,  in  such  respects  as  I've 
mentioned,  you  must  come  to  the  Marshalsea." 

When  his  youngest  child  was  eight  years  old,  his  wife,  who 
had  long  been  languishing  away — of  her  own  inherent  weak- 
ness, not  that  she  retained  any  greater  sensitiveness  as  to  her 
place  of  abode  than  he  did — went  upon  a  visit  to  a  poor 
friend  and  old  nurse  in  the  country,  and  died  there.  He 
remained  shut  up  in  his  room  for  a  fortnight  afterward  ; 
and  an  attorney's  clerk,  who  was  going  through  the  insolvent 
court,  engrossed  an  address  of  condolence  to  him,  which 
looked  like  a  lease,  and  which  all  the  prisoners  signed. 
When  he  appeared  again  he  was  grayer  (he  had  soon  begun 
to  turn  gray)  ;  and  the  turnkey  noticed  that  his  hands  went 
often  to  his  trembling  lips  again,  as  they  had  used  to  do 
when  he  first  came  in.  But  he  got  pretty  well  over  it  in  a 
month  or  two  ;  and  in  the  meantime  the  children  played 
about  the  yard  as  regularly  as  ever,  but  in  black. 

Then  Mrs.  Bangham,  longpopular  medium  of  communica- 
tion with  the  outer  world,  began  to  be  infirm,  and  to  be 
found  oftener  than  usual  comatose  on  pavements,  with  her 
basket  of  purchases  spilled,  and  the  change  of  her  clients 
ninepence  short.  His  son  began  to  supersede  Mrs.  Bang- 
ham,  and  to  execute  commissions  in  a  knowing  manner,  and 
to  be  of  the  prison  prisonous,  and  of  the  streets  streety. 

Time  went  on,  and  the  turnkey  began  to  fail.  His  chest 
swelled,  and  his  legs  got  weak,  and  he  was  short  of  breath. 
The  well-worn  wooden  stool  was  "beyond  him,"  he  com- 
plained. He  sat  in  an  arm-chair  with  a  cushion,  and  some- 
times wheezed  so,  for  minutes  together,  that  he  couldn't  turn 
the  key.  When  he  was  overpowered  by  these  fits,  the 
debtor  often  turned  it  for  him, 

''You  and  me,"  said  the  turnkey,  one  snowy  winter's  night 
when  the  lodge,  with  a  bright  fire  in  it,  was  pretty  full  of 
company,  ''  is  the  oldest  inhabitants.  I  wasn't  here  myself, 
above  seven  year  before  you.  I  shan't  last  long.  When 
I'm  off  the  lock  for  good  and  all,  you'll  be  the  father  of  the 
Marshalsea." 

The  turnkey  went  off  the  lock  of  this  world,  next  day. 
His  words  were  remembered  and  repeated  ;  and  tradition 
afterward  handed   down  from   generation   to  generation — a 


72  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Marshalsea  generation  might  be  calculated  as  about  three 
months — that  the  shabby  old  debtor  with  the  soft  man- 
ner and  the  white  hair,  was  the  father  of  the  Marshal- 
sea. 

And  he  grew  to  be  proud  of  the  title.  If  any  impostor 
had  arisen  to  claim  it,  he  would  have  shed  tears  in  resentment 
of  the  attempt  to  deprive  him  of  his  rights.  A  disposition 
began  to  be  perceived  in  him,  to  exaggerate  the  number  of 
years  he  had  been  there  ;  it  was  generally  understood  that 
you  must  deduct  a  few  from  his  account ;  he  was  vain,  the 
fleeting  generation  of  debtors  said. 

All  new-comers  were  presented  to  him.  He  was  punctili- 
ous in  the  exaction  of  this  ceremony.  The  wits  would  per- 
form the  office  of  introduction  with  overcharged  pomp  and 
politeness,  but  they  could  not  easily  overstep  his  sense  of  its 
gravity.  He  received  them  in  his  poor  room  (he  disliked 
an  introduction  in  the  mere  yard,  as  informal — a  thing  that 
might  happen  to  any  body),  with  a  kind  of  bowed-down 
beneficence.  They  were  welcome  to  the  Marshalsea,  he 
would  tell  them.  Yes,  he  was  the  father  of  the  place.  So 
the  world  was  kind  enough  to  call  him  ;  and  so  he  was,  if 
more  than  twenty  years  of  residence  gave  him  a  claim  to  the 
title.  It  looked  small  at  first,  but  there  was  very  good  com- 
pany there — among  a  mixture — necessarily  a  mixture — and 
very  good  air. 

It  became  a  not  unusual  circumstance  for  letters  to  be  put 
under  his  door  at  night,  inclosing  half-a-crown,  two  half- 
crowns,  now  and  then  at  long  intervals  even  half-a-sovereign, 
for  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea.  *'  With  the  compliments 
of  a  collegian  taking  leave."  He  received  the  gifts  as 
tributes,  from  admirers,  to  a  public  character.  Sometimes 
these  correspondents  assumed  facetious  names,  as  the  Brick, 
Bellows,  Old  Gooseberry,  Wideawake,  Snooks,  Mops,  Cut- 
away, the  Dogs-meat  Man  ;  but  he  considered  this  in  bad 
taste,  and  was  always  a  little  hurt  by  it. 

In  the  fullness  of  time,  this  correspondence  showing  signs 
of  wearing  out,  and  seeming  to  require  an  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  correspondents  to  which  in  the  hurried  circumstances 
of  departure  many  of  them  might  not  be  equal,  he  estab- 
lished the  custom  of  attending  collegians  of  a  certain  stand- 
ing, to  the  gate,  and  taking  leave  of  them  there.  The  col- 
legian under  treatment,  after  shaking  hands,  would  occasion- 
ally stop  to  wrap  up  something  in  a  bit  of  paper,  and  would, 
come  back  again,  calling  '*  Hi  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


1Z 


He  would  look  round  surprised.  *'  Me  ?  "  he  would  say, 
with  a  smile. 

"  By  this  time  the  collegian  would  be  up  with  him,  and  he 
would  paternally  add,  '*  What  have  you  forgotten  ?  What 
can  I  do  for  you  ? " 

*' I  for  ot  to  leave  this,"  the  collegian  would  usually 
return,  *'  for  the  father  of  Marshalsea." 

^'  My  good  sir,'fhe  would  rejoin,  "  he  is  infinitely  obliged 
to  you."  But,  to  the  last,  the  irresolute  hand  of  old  Marshal- 
sea  would  remain  in  the  pocket  into  which  he  had  slipped 
the  money,  during  two  or  three  turns  about  the  yard,  lest 
the  transaction  should  be  too  conspicuous  to  the  general 
body  of  collegians. 

One  afternoon  he  had  been  doing  the  honors  of  the  place 
to  a  rather  large  party  of  collegians,  who  happened  to  be 
going  out,  when,  as  he  was  coming  back,  he  encountered 
one  from  the  poor  side  who  had  been  taken  in  execution  for 
a  small  sum  a  week  before,  had  ''  settled  "  in  the  course  of 
that  afternoon,  and  was  going  out  too.  The  man  was  a 
mere  plasterer  in  his  working  dress  ;  had  his  wife  with  him, 
and  a  bundle  ;  and  was  in  high  spirits. 

^'  God  bless  you,  sir,"  he  said  in  passing. 

^^  And  you,"  benignantly  returned  the  father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea. 

They  were  pretty  far  divided,  going  their  several  ways, 
when  the  plasterer  called  out,  "  I  say — sir  !  "  and  came  back 
to  him. 

''  It  an't  much,"  said  the  plasterer,  putting  a  little  pile  of 
half-pence  in  his  hand,  "  but  it's  well  meant." 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  had  never  been  offered  trib- 
ute in  copper  yet.  His  children  often  had,  and  with  his 
perfect  acquiescence  it  had  gone  into  the  common  purse,  to 
buy  meat  that  he  had  eaten,  and  drink  that  he  had  drunk  ; 
but  fustian  splashed  with  white  lime,  bestowing  half-pence  on 
him,  front  to  front,  was  new. 

'^  How  dare  you  !  "  he  said  to  the  man,  and  feebly  burst 
into  tears. 

The  plasterer  turned  him  toward  the  wall,  that  his  face 
might  not  be  seen  ;  and  the  action  was  so  delicate,  and  the 
man  was  so  penetrated  with  repentance,  and  asked  pardon 
so  honestly,  that  he  could  make  him  no  less  acknowledgment 
than,  *^  I  know  you  meant  it  kindly.     Say  no  more." 

■^  Bless  your  soul,  sir,"  urged  the  plasterer,  "  I  did  indeed. 
I'd  do  more  by  you  than  the  rest  of  'em  do,  I  fancy." 


74  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  What  would  you  do  ?  *'  he  asked. 

"  I'd  come  back  to  see  you,  after  I  was  let  out." 

'*  Give  me  the  money  again,"  said  the  other,  eagerly,  "  and 
I'll  keep  it,  and  never  spend  it.  Thank  you  for  it,  thank 
you  !    I  shall  see  you  again  ? " 

"  If  I  live  a  week  you  shall.** 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  The  collegians  assem- 
bled in  symposium  in  the  snuggery  th4t  night,  marveled 
whafe  had  happened  to  their  father  ;  he  walked  so  late  in  the 
shadows  of  the  yard,  and  seemed  so  downcast. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

THE   CHILD   OF   MARSHALSEA. 

The  baby  whose  first  draught  of  air  had  been  tinctured 
with  Doctor  Haggage's  brandy,  was  handed  down  among  the 
generations  of  collegians,  like  the  tradition  of  their  common 
parent.  In  the  earlier  stages  of  her  existence,  she  was  handed 
down  in  a  literal  and  prosaic  sense;  it  being  almost  a  part 
of  the  entrance  footing  of  every  new  collegian  to  nurse  the 
child  who  had  been  born  in  the  college. 

"  By  rights,"  remarked  the  turnkey,  when  she  was  first 
shown  to  him,  ^*  I  ought  to  be  her  godfather." 

The  debtor  irresolutely  thought  of  it  for  a  minute,  and 
said,  "  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  object  to  really  being  her  god- 
father ?  " 

**  Oh  !  /  don't  object,'*  replied  the  turnkey,  '^  if  you 
don't." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  she  was  christened  one  Sunday 
afternoon,  when  the  turnkey,  being  relieved,  was  off  the  lock; 
and  that  the  turnkey  went  up  to  the  font  of  Saint  George's 
church,  and  promised  and  vowed  and  renounced  on  her  be- 
half, as  he  himself  related  when  he  came  back,  '^  like  a  good 
*un." 

This  invested  the  turnkey  with  a  new  proprietary  share  in 
the  child,  over  and  above  his  former  official  one.  When  she 
began  to  walk  and  talk,  he  became  fond  of  her;  bought  a 
little  arm-chair  and  stood  it  by  the  high  feeder  of  the  lodge 
fire-place;  liked  to  have  her  company  when  he  was  on  the 
lock,  and  used  to  bribe  her  with  cheap  toys  to  come  and  talk 
to  him.     The  child,  for  her  part,  soon  grew  so  fond  of  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  75 

turnkey,  that  she  would  come  climbing  up  the  lodge-steps  of 
her  own  accord  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  When  she  fell  asleep 
in  the  little  arm-chair  by  the  high  fender,  the  turnkey  would 
cover  her  with  his  pocket  handkerchief;  and  when  she  sat  in 
it  dressing  and  undressing  a  doll — which  soon  came  to  be 
unlike  dolls  on  the  other  side  of  the  lock,  and  to  bear  a  hor- 
rible family  resemblance  to  Mrs.  Bangham — he  would  con- 
template her  from  the  top  of  his  stool  with  exceeding  gentle- 
ness. Witnessing  these  things,  the  collegians  would  express 
an  opinion  that  the  turnkey,  who  was  a  bachelor,  had  been 
cut  out  by  nature  for  a  family  man.  But  the  turnkey  thanked 
them,  and  said,  ^'  No,  on  the  whole  it  was  enough  to  see  other 
people's  children  there." 

At  what  period  of  her  early  life  the  little  creature  began 
to  perceive  that  it  was  not  the  habit  of  all  the  world  to  live 
locked  up  in  narrow  yards  surrounded  by  high  walls  with 
spikes  at  the  top,  would  be  a  difficult  question  to  settle.  But 
she  was  a  very,  very  little  creature  indeed,  when  she  had 
somehow  gained  the  knowledge,  that  her  clasp  of  her  father's 
hand  was  to  be  always  loosened  at  the  door  which  the  great 
key  opened;  and  that  while  her  own  light  steps  were  free  to 
pass  beyond  it,  his  feet  must  never  cross  that  line.  A  pitiful 
and  plaintive  look,  with  which  she  had  begun  to  regard  him 
when  she  was  still  extremely  young,  was  perhaps  a  part  of 
this  discovery. 

With  a  pitiful  and  plaintive  look  for  every  thing  indeed, 
but  with  something  in  it  for  only  him  that  was  like  protection, 
this  child  of  the  Marshalsea,  and  child  of  the  father  of  the 
Marshalsea,  sat  by  her  friend  the  turnkey  in  the  lodge,  kept 
the  family  room,  or  wandered  about  the  prison -yard  for  the 
first  eight  years  of  her  life.  With  a  pitiful  and  plaintive  look 
for  her  wayward  sister;  for  her  idle  brother;  for  the  high 
blank  walls;  for  the  faded  crowd  they  shut  in;  for  the  games 
of  the  prison  children  as  they  whooped  and  ran,  and  played 
at  hide-and-seek,  and  made  the  iron  bars  of  the  inner  gate- 
way "  Home." 

Wistful  and  wondering,  she  would  sit  in  summer  weather 
by  the  high  fender  of  the  lodge,  looking  up  at  the  sky  through 
the  barred  window,  until  bars  of  light  would  arise,  when  she 
turned  her  eyes  away,  between  her  and  her  friend,  and  she 
would  see  him  through  a  grating,  too. 

*'  Thinking  of  the  fields,"  the  turnkey  said  once,  after 
watching  her,  ''  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Where  are  they  ? "  she  inquired. 


76  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"Why,  they're — over  there,  my  dear,"  said  the  turnkey, 
with  a  vague  flourish  of  his  key.     "  Just  about  there." 

**  Does  any  body  open  them  and  shut  them  ?  Are  they 
locked  ? " 

The  turnkey  was  discomfited.  "  Well,"  he  said.  "  Not 
in  general." 

"  Are  they  very  pretty,  Bob  ? "  She  called  him  Bob,  by  his 
own  particular  request  and  instruction. 

"  Lovely.  Full  of  flowers.  There's  buttercups,  and  there's 
daisies,  and  there's" — the  turnkey  hesitated,  being  short  of 
floral  nomenclature — "  there's  dandelions,  and  ail  manner  of 
games." 

"  Is  it  very  pleasant  to  be  there,  Bob  ?  " 

**  Prime,"  said  the  turnkey. 

*'  Was  father  ever  there  ?  " 

*'  Hem  !  "  coughed  the  turnkey.  "  Oh  yes,  he  was  there, 
sometimes." 

"  Is  he  sorry  not  to  be  there  now  ? " 

"  N — not  particular,"  said  the  turnkey. 

*^  Nor  any  of  the  people  ? "  she  asked,  glancing  at  the  list- 
less crowd  within.  ^*  Oh  are  you  quite  sure  and  certain, 
Bob?" 

At  this  difficult  point  of  the  conversation  Bob  gave  in,  and 
changed  the  subject  to  hard-bake  :  always  his  last  resource 
when  he  found  his  little  friend  getting  him  into  a  political, 
social,  or  theological  corner.  But  this  was  the  origin  of  a 
series  of  Sunday  excursions  that  these  two  curious  compan- 
ions made  together.  They  used  to  issue  from  the  lodge  on 
alternate  Sunday  afternoons  with  great  gravity,  bound  for 
some  meadows  or  green  lanes  that  had  been  elaborately  ap- 
pointed by  the  turnkey  in  the  course  of  the  week;  and  there 
she  picked  grass  and  flowers  to  bring  home,  while  he  smoked 
his  pipe.  Afterward,  there  were  tea-gardens,  shrimps,  ale, 
and  other  delicacies  ;  and  then  they  would  come  back  hand 
in  hand,  unless  she  was  more  than  usually  tired,  and  had 
fallen  asleep  on  his  shoulder. 

In  those  early  days,  the  turnkey  first  began  profoundly  to 
consider  a  question  which  cost  him  so  much  mental  la.bor, 
that  it  remained  undetermined  on  the  day  of  his  death. 
He  decided  to  will  and  bequeath  his  little  property  of  savings 
to  his  godchild,  and  the  point  arose  how  could  it  be  so  **  tied 
up  "  as  that  only  she  should  have  the  benefit  of  it  ?  His 
experience  on  the  lock  gave  him  such  an  acute  perception 
of  tbe  enormous  difficulty  of  *'  tying  up  "   money  with   any 


'      LITTLE  DORRIT.  77 

approach  to  tightness,  and  contrariwise  of  the  remarkable 
ease  with  which  it  got  loose,  that  through  a  series  of  years 
he  regularly  propounded  this  knotty  point  to  every  new  in- 
solvent agent  and  other  professional  gentleman  who  passed  in 
and  out. 

^'  Supposing,"  he  would  say,  stating  the  case  with  his  key, 
on  the  professional  gentleman's  waistcoat  ;  "  supposing  a  man 
wanted  to  leave  his  property  to  a  young  female,  and  wanted 
to  tie  it  up  so  that  nobody  else  should  ever  be  able  to  make 
a  grab  at  it  ;  how  would  you  tie  up  that  property  ?  " 

"  Settle  it  strictly  on  herself,"  the  professional  gentleman 
would  complacently  answer. 

*^  But  look  here,"  quoth  the  turnkey.  "  Supposing  sha 
had,  say  a  brother,  say  a  father,  say  a  husband,  who  would 
be  likely  to  make  a  grab  at  that  property  when  she  came 
into  it — how  about  that  ?  " 

''  It  would  be  settled  on  herself,  and  they  would  have  no 
more  legal  claim  on  it  than  you,"  would  be  the  professional 
answer. 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  said  the  turnkey.  ^*  Supposing  she  was  tender- 
hearted, and  they  came  over  her.  Where's  your  law  for 
tying  it  up  then  ?  " 

The  deepest  character  whom  the  turnkey  sounded,  was 
unable  to  produce  his  law  for  tying  such  a  knot  as  that. 
So,  the  turnkey  thought  about  it  all  his  life,  and  died  intes- 
tate after  all. 

But  that  was  long  afterward,  when  his  god-daughter  was 
past  sixteen.  The  first  half  of  that  space  of  her  life  was 
only  just  accomplished,  when  her  pitiful  and  plaintive  look 
saw  her  father  a  widower.  From  that  time  the  protection 
that  her  wondering  eyes  had  expressed  toward  him,  became 
embodied  in  action^  and  the  child  of  Marshalsea  took  upon 
herself  a  new  relation  toward  the  father. 

At  first,  such  a  baby  could  do  little  more  than  sit  with 
him,  deserting  her  livelier  place  by  the  high  fender,  and 
quietly  watching  him.  But  this  made  her  so  far  necessary 
to  him  that  he  became  accustomed  to  her,  and  began  to  be 
sensible  of  missing  her  when  she  was  not  there.  Through 
this  little  gate,  she  passed  out  of  childhood  into  the  care- 
laden  world. 

What  her  pitiful  look  saw,  at  that  early  time,  in  her  father, 
in  her  sister,  in  her  brother,  in  the  jail  ;  how  much,  or  how 
little  of  the  wretched  truth  it  pleased  God  to  make  visible 
to  her  ;  lies  hidden  with  many  mysteries.     It  is  enough  that 


78  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

she  was  inspired  to  be  something  which  was  not  what  the 
rest  were,  and  to  be  that  something,  different  and  laborious, 
for  the  sake  of  the  rest.  /Inspired  ?  Yes.  Shall  we  speak 
of  the  inspiration  of  a  poet  or  a  priest,  and  not  of  the  heart 
impelled  by  love  and  self-devotion  to  the  lowliest  work  in 
the  lowliest  way  of  life  ! 

With  no  earthly  friend  to  help  her,  or  so  much  as  to  see 
her,  but  the  one  so  strangely  assorted  ;  with  no  knowledge 
even  of  the  common  daily  tone  and  habits  of  the  common 
members^  of  the  free  community  who  are  not  shut  up  in 
prisons  ;/born  and  bred,  in  a  social  condition,  false  even  with 
a  reference  to  the  falsest  condition  outside  the  walls  ;  drink- 
ing from  infancy  of  a  well  whose  waters  had  their  own 
peculiar  stain,  their  own  unwholesome  and  unnatural  taste  ; 
the  child  of  the  Marshalsea  began  her  womanly  life/' 

No  matter  through  what  mistakes  and  discouragements, 
what  ridicule  (not  unkindly  meant,  but  deeply  felt)  of  her 
youth  and  her  little  figure,  what  humble  consciousness  of  her 
own  babyhood  and  want  of  strength,  even  in  the  matter  of 
lifting  and  carrying /through  how  much  weariness  and  help- 
lessness, and  how  many  secret  tears  ;  she  trudged  on  until 
recognized  as  useful,  even  indispensable.  That  time  came. 
She  took  the  place  of  eldest  of  the  three,  in  all  things  but 
precedence  ;  was  the  head  of  the  fallen  family  ;  and  bore, 
in  her  own  heart,  its  anxieties  and  shames.// 

At  thirteen  she  could  read  and  keep  accounts — that  is, 
could  put  down  in  words  and  figures  how  much  the  bare 
necessaries  that  they  wanted  would  cost,  and  how  much  less 
they  had  to  buy  them  with.  She  had  been,  by  snatches  of  a 
few  weeks  at  a  time,  to  an  evening  school  outside,  and  got 
her  sister  and  brother  sent  to  day-schools  by  desultory  starts, 
during  three  or  four  years.  There  was  no  instruction  for 
any  of  them  at  home  ;  but  she  knew  well — no  one  better — 
that  a  man  so  broken  as  to  be  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea, 
could  be  no  father  to  his  own  children. 

To  these  scanty  means  of  improvement,  she  added  another 
of  her  own  contriving.  Once,  among  the  heterogeneous 
crowd  of  inmates  there  appeared  a  dancing-master.  Her 
sister  had  great  desire  to  know  the  dancing-master's  art,  and 
seemed  to  have  a  taste  that  way.  At  thirteen  years  old,  the 
child  of  the  Marshalsea  presented  herself  to  the  dancing- 
master,  with  a  little  bag  in  her  hand,  and  preferred  her 
humble  petition. 

*'  If  you  please,  I  was  born  here,  sir." 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


79 


'*  Oh  !  You  are  the  young  lady,  are  you  ?  '*  said  the 
dancing-master,  surveying  the  small  figure  and  uplifted  face. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  "  said  the  dancing-master. 

"  Nothing  for  me,  sir,  thank  you,"  anxiously  undrawing 
the  strings  of  the  little  bag,  "  but  if,  while  you  stay  here,  you 
could  be  so  kind  as  to  teach  my  sister  cheap — " 

*'  My  child,  I'll  teach  her  for  nothing,"  said  the  dancing- 
master,  shutting  up  the  bag.  He  was  as  good-natured  a 
dancing-master  as  ever  danced  to  the  insolvent  court,  and 
he  kept  his  word.  The  sister  was  so  apt  a  pupil,  and  the 
dancing-master  had  such  abundant  leisure  to  bestow  upon 
her  (for  it  took  him  a  matter  of  ten  weeks  to  set  to  his  cred- 
itors, lead  off,  turn  the  commissioners,  and  right  and  left 
back  to  his  professional  pursuits),  that  wonderful  progress 
was  made.  Indeed,  the  dancing-master  was  so  proud  of  it, 
and  so  wishful  to  display  it,  before  he  left,  to  a  few  select 
friends  among  the  collegians,  that  at  six  o'clock  on  a  cer- 
tain fine  morning,  a  minuet  de  la  cour  came  off  in  the  yard, 
the  college-rooms  being  of  too  confined  proportions  for  the 
purpose — in  which  so  much  ground  was  covered,  and  the 
steps  were  so  conscientiously  executed,  that  the  dancing- 
master,  having  to  play  the  kit  besides,  was  thoroughly 
blown. 

The  success  of  this  beginning,  which  led  to  the  dancing- 
master's  continuing  his  instruction  after  his  release,  em- 
boldened the  poor  child  to  try  again.  She  watched  and 
waited  months,  for  a  seamstress.  In  the  fullness  of  time  a 
milliner  came  in,  and  to  her  she  repaired  on  her  own  behalf. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  she  said,  looking  timidly 
round  the  door  of  the  milliner,  Avhom  she  found  in  tears  and 
in  bed  ;  "but  I  was  born  here." 

Every  body  seemed  to  hear  of  her  as  soon  as  they  arrived; 
for  the  milliner  sat  up  in  bed,  drying  her  eyes,  and  said, 
just  as  the  dancing-master  had  said  : 

"  Oh  !      You  are  the  child,  are  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  haven't  got  any  thing  for  you,"  said  the 
milliner,  shaking  her  head. 

'*  It's  not  that,  ma'am.  If  you  please  I  want  to  learn 
needlework." 

•'  Why  should  you  do  that,"  returned  the  milliner,  "with 
me  before  you  ?     It  has  not  done  me  much  good." 

"  Nothing — whatever  it  is — seems  to  have  done  any  body 


8o  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

much  good  who  comes  here,"  she  returned  in  all  simplicity, 
"  but  I  want  to  learn  just  the  same." 

*'  I  am  afraid  you  are  so  weak,  you  see,"  the  milliner  ob- 
jected. 

"  I  don't  think  I  am  weak,  ma'am." 

*'  And  you  are  so  very,  very  little,  you  see,"  the  milliner 
objected. 

**  Yes,  I  am  afraid  I  am  very  little  indeed,"  returned  the 
child  of  the  Marshalsea ;  and  so  began  to  sob  over  that 
unfortunate  defect  of  hers,  which  came  so*often  in  her  way. 
The  milliner — who  was  not  morose  or  hard-hearted,  only 
newly  insolvent — was  touched,  took  her  in  hand  in  good-will, 
found  her  the  most  patient  and  earnest  of  pupils,  and  made 
her  a  cunning  work-woman  in  course  of  time. 

In  course  of  time,  and  in  the  very  self-same  course  ot 
time,  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  gradually  developed  a 
new  flower  of  character.  The  more  fatherly  he  grev\^  as  to 
the  Marshalsea,  and  the  more  dependent  he  became  on  the 
contributions  of  his  changing  family,  the  greater  stand  he 
made  by  his  forlorn  gentility.  With  the  same  hand  that  had 
pocketed  a  collegian's  half-crown  half  an  hour  ago,  he  would 
wipe  away  the  tears  that  streamed  over  his  cheeks  if  any  ref- 
erence were  made  to  his  daughters'  earning  their  bread.  So, 
over  and  above  her  other  daily  cares,  the  child  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea had  always  upon  her  the  care  of  preserving  the  gen- 
teel fiction  that  they  were  all  idle  beggars  together. 

The  sister  became  a  dancer.  There  was  a  ruined  uncle  in 
the  family  group — ruined  by  his  brother,  the  father  of  the 
Marshalsea,  and  knowing  no  more  how  than  his  ruiner  did, 
but  accepting  the  fact  as  an  inevitable  certainty — on  whom 
her  protection  devolved.  Naturally  a  retired  and  simple  man, 
he  had  shown  no  particular  sense  of  being  ruined,  at  the  time 
when  that  calamity  fell  upon  him,  further  than  that  he  had  left 
off  washinghimself  when  the  shock  was  announced,  and  never 
took  to  that  luxury  any  more.  He  had  been  a  very  indiffer- 
ent musical  amateur  in  his  better  days  ;  and  when  he  fell 
with  his  brother,  resorted  for  support  to  playing  a  clarionet 
as  dirty  as  himself  in  a  small  theater  orchestra.  It  was  the 
theater  in  which  his  niece  became  a  dancer  ;  he  had  been  a 
fixture  there  a  long  time  when  she  took  her  poor  station  in 
it  ;  and  he  accepted  the  task  of  serving  as  her  escort  and 
guardian,  just  as  he  would  have  accepted  an  illness,  a  legacy, 
a  feast,  a  starvation — any  thing  but  soap. 

To  enable  this  girl  to  earn  her  few  weekly  shillings,  it  was 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  8i 

necessary  for  the  child  of  the  Marshalsea  to  go  through  an 
elaborate  form  with  the  father. 

'^  Fanny  is  not  going  to  live  with  us  just  now,  father.  She 
will  be  here  a  good  deal  in  the  day,  but  she  is  going  to  live 
outside  with  uncle." 

**  You  surprise  me.     Why  ?  " 

*•  I  think  uncle  wants  a  companion,  father.  He  should  be 
attended  to,  and  looked  after." 

'*  A  companion  ?  He  passes  much  of  his  time  here.  And 
you  attend  to  him  and  look  after  him,  Amy,  a  great  deal 
more  than  ever  your  sister  will.  You  all  go  out  so  much  ; 
you  all  go  out  so  much." 

This  was  to  keep  up  the  ceremony  and  pretense  of  his 
having  no  idea  that  Amy  herself  went  out  by  the  day  to  work. 

"  But  we  are  always  very  glad  to  come  home,  father  ;  now, 
are  we  not  ?  And  as  to  Fanny,  perhaps  besides  keeping 
uncle  company  and  taking  care  of  him,  it  may  be  as  well  for 
her  not  quite  to  live  here,  always.  She  was  not  born  here  as 
I  was,  you  know,  father." 

*^  Well,  Amy,  well.  I  don't  quite  follow  you,  but  it's  nat- 
ural I  suppose  that  Fanny  should  prefer  to  be  outside,  and 
even  that  you  often  should,  too.  So,  you  and  Fanny  and 
your  uncle,  my  dear,  shall  have  your  own  way.  Good,  good. 
I'll  not  meddle  ;  don't  mind  me." 

To  get  her  brother  out  of  the  prison  ;  out  of  the  succes- 
sion to  Mrs.  Bangham  in  executing  commissions,  and  out  of 
the  slang  interchange  with  very  doubtful  companions,  conse- 
quent upon  both  ;  was  her  hardest  task.  At  eighteen  he 
would  have  dragged  on  from  hand  to  mouth,  from  hour  to 
hour,  from  penny  to  penny,  until  eighty.  Nobody  got  into 
the  prison  from  whom  he  derived  any  thing  useful  or  good, 
and  she  could  find  no  patron  for  him  but  her  old  friend  and 
godfather. 

"  Dear  Bob,"  said  she,  "  what  is  to  become  of  poor  Tip  ?  '* 
His  name  was  Edward,  and  Ted  had  been  transformed  into 
Tip,  within  the  walls. 

The  turnkey  had  strong  private  opinions  as  to  what  would 
become  of  poor  Tip,  and  had  even  gone  so  far  with  the  view 
of  averting  their  fulfillment,  as  to  sound  Tip  in  reference  to 
the  expediency  of  running  away  and  going  to  serve  his 
country.  But  Tip  had  thanked  him,  and  said  he  didn't 
seem  to  care  for  his  country. 

*^  Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  turnkey,  *'  something  ought  to 
be  done  with  him.     Suppose  I  try  and  get  him  into  the  law  ? " 


82  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  That  would  be  so  good  of  you,  Bob  !  " 

The  turnkey  had  now  two  points  to  put  to  the  professional 
gentlemen  as  they  passed  in  and  out.  He  put  this  second 
one  so  perseveringly,  that  a  stool  and  twelve  shillings  a  week 
were  at  last  found  for  Tip  in  the  office  of  an  attorney  in  a 
great  national  palladium  called  the  Palace  Court  ;  at  that 
time  one  of  a  considerable  list  of  everlasting  bulwarks  to  the 
dignity  and  safety  of  Albion, whose  places  know  them  no  more. 

Tip  languished  in  Clifford's  Inn  for  six  months,  and  at  the 
expiration  of  that  term,  sauntered  back  one  evening  with 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  incidentally  observed  to  his 
sister  that  he  was  not  going  back  again. 

''Not  going  back  again?"  said  the  poor  little  anxious 
child  of  the  Marshalsea,  always  calculating  and  planning 
for  Tip,  in  the  front  rank  of  her  charges. 

"  I  am  so  tired  of  it,"  said  Tip,  '*  that  I  have  cut  it.** 

Tip  tired  of  every  thing.  With  intervals  of  Marshalsea 
lounging,  and  Mrs.  Bangham  succession,  his  small  second 
mother,  aided  by  her  trusty  friend,  got  him  into  a  warehouse^ 
into  a  market  garden,  into  the  hop  trade,  into  the  law  again, 
into  an  auctioneer's,  into  a  brewery,  into  a  stockbroker's, 
into  the  law  again,  into  a  coach  office,  into  a  wagon  office, 
into  the  law  again,  into  a  general  dealer's,  into  a  distillery, 
into  the  law  again,  into  a  wool  house,  into  a  dry  goods 
house,  into  the  Billingsgate  trade,  into  the  foreign  fruit 
trade,  and  into  the  docks.  But  whatever  Tip  went  into,  he 
came  out  of  tired,  announcing  that  he  had  cut  it.  Wherever 
he  went,  this  fore-doomed  Tip  appeared  to  take  the  prison 
walls  with  him,  and  to  set  them  up  in  such  trade  or  calling  ; 
and  to  prowl  about  within  their  narrow  limits  in  the  old  slip- 
shod, purposeless,  down-at-heel  way  ;  until  the  real  immov- 
able Marshalsea  walls  asserted  their  fascination  over  him, 
and  brought  him  back. 

Nevertheless,  the  brave  little  creature  did  so  fix  her  heart 
on  her  brother's  rescue,  that  while  he  was  ringing  out  these 
doleful  changes,  she  pinched  and  scraped  enough  together 
to  ship  him  for  Canada.  When  he  was  tired  of  nothing  to 
do,  and  disposed  in  its  turn  to  cut  even  that,  he  graciously 
consented  to  go  to  Canada.  And  there  was  grief  in  her 
bosom  over  parting  with  him,  and  joy  in  the  hope  of  his  be- 
ing put  in  a  straight  course  at  last. 

''  God  bless  you,  dear  Tip.  Don't  be  too  proud  to  come 
and  see  us,  when  you  have  made  your  fortune." 

''  All  right  !  "  said  Tip,  and  went, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  S;^ 

But  not  all  the  way  to  Canada  ;  in  fact,  not  further  than 
Liverpool.  After  making  the  voyage  to  that  port  from  Lon- 
don, he  found  himself  so  strongly  impelled  to  cut  the  vessel, 
that  he  resolved  to  walk  back  again.  Carrying  out  which 
intention,  he  presented  himself  before  her  at  the  expiration 
of  a  month,  in  rags,  without  shoes,  and  much  more  tired 
than  ever. 

At  length,  after  another  interval  of  successorship  to  Mrs. 
Bangham,  he  found  a  pursuit  for  himself  and  announced  it. 

^' Amy,  I  have  got  a  situation." 

"  Have  you  really  and  truly,  Tip  ? " 

*'  All  right.  I  shall  do  now.  You  needn't  look  anxious 
about  me  any  more,  old  girl." 

"  What  is  it.  Tip  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  know  Slingo  by  sight  ?  " 

^'  Not  the  man  they  call  the  dealer  ?  " 

*^  That's  the  chap.  He'll,  be  out  on  Monday,  and  he's 
going  to  give  me  a  berth." 

*^  What  is  he  a  dealer  in.  Tip  ? " 

^*  Horses.     All  right  !     I  shall  do  now,  Amy." 

She  lost  sight  of  him  for  months  afterward,  and  only 
heard  from  him  once.  A  whisper  passed  among  the  elder 
collegians  that  he  had  been  seen  at  a  mock  auction  in  Moor- 
fields,  pretending  to  buy  plated  articles  for  massive  silver, 
and  paying  for  them  wuth  the  greatest  liberality  in  bank 
notes  ;  but  it  never  reached  her  ears.  One  evening  she  was 
alone  at  work — standing  up  at  the  window,  to  save  the 
twilight  lingering  above  the  wall — when  he  opened  the  door 
and  walked  in. 

She  kissed  and  welcomed  him  ;  but  was  afraid  to  ask  him 
any  question.  He  saw  how  anxious  and  timid  she  was,  and 
appeared  sorry. 

"  I  am  afraid.  Amy,  you'll  be  vexed  this  time.  Upon  my 
life  I  am." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,  Tip.  Have  you 
come  back  ? " 

''  Why— yes." 

'*  Not  expecting  this  time  that  what  you  had  found  would 
answer  very  well,  I  am  less  surprised  and  sorry  than  I  might 
have  been.  Tip." 

''  Ah  !     But  that's  not  the  worst  of  it." 

''  Not  the  worst  of  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  look  so  startled.  No,  Amy,  not  the  worst  of  it. 
I  have  come  back,  you  see  ;  but — do/i'/  look   so  startled — I 


84  LITTLE  DORRTr. 

have  come  back  in  what  I  may  call  a  new  way.  I  am  off  the 
volunteer  list  altogether.  lam  in  now,  as  one  of  the  regulars." 

^^  Oh  !    Don't  say  you  are  a  prisoner,  Tip  !    Don't,  don't !  " 

*^  Well,  I  don't  want  to  say  it,"  he  returned  in  a  reluctant 
tone  ;  "  but  if  you  can't  understand  me  without  my  saying 
it,  what  am  I  to  do  ?     I  am  in  for  forty  pound  odd." 

For  the  first  time  in  all  those  years,  she  sunk  under  her 
cares.  She  cried,  with  her  clasped  hands  lifted  above  her 
head,  that  it  would  kill  their  father  if  he  ever  knew  it  ;  and 
fell  down  at  Tip's  graceless  feet. 

It  was  easier  for  Tip  to  bring  her  to  her  senses  than  for 
her  to  bring  him  to  understand  that  the  father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea  would  be  beside  himself  if  he  knew  the  truth.  The 
thing  was  incomprehensible  to  Tip,  and  altogether  a 
fanciful  notion.  He  yielded  to  it  in  that  light  only,  when 
he  submitted  to  her  entreaties,  backed  by  those  of  his  uncle 
and  sister.  There  was  no  want  of  precedent  for  h:is 
return  ;  it  was  accounted  for  to  the  father  in  the  usual  way; 
and  the  collegians,  with  a  better  comprehension  of  the  j^ious 
fraud  than  Tip,  supported  it  loyally. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history,  of  the  child  of  the 
Marshalsea  at  twenty-two.  With  a  still  surviving  attachment 
to  the  one  miserable  yard  and  block  of  houses  as  her  birth- 
place and  home,  she  passed  to  and  fro  in  it  shrinkingly  now, 
with  a  womanly  consciousness  that  she  was  pointed  out  to 
every  one.  Since  she  had  begun  to  work  beyond  the  walls, 
she  had  found  it  necessary  to  conceal  where  she  lived, 
and  to  come  and  go  as  secretly  as  she  could,  between  the 
free  city  and  the  iron  gates,  outside  of  which  she  had  never 
slept  in  her  life.  Her  original  timidity  had  grown  with  this 
concealment,  and  her  light  step  and  her  little  figure  shunned 
the  thronged  streets  while  they  passed  along  them. 

Worldly  wise  in  hard  and  poor  necessities,  she  was  inno- 
cent in  all  things  else.  Innocent,  in  the  mist  through  which 
she  saw  her  father,  and  the  prison,  and  the  turbid  living 
river  that  flowed  through  it  and  flowed  on. 

This  was  the  life,  and  this  the  history  of  Little  Dorrit  ; 
now  going  home  upon  a  dull  September  evening,  observed 
at  a  distance  by  Arthur  Clennam.  This  was  the  life,  and 
this  the  history  of  Little  Dorrit  ;  turning  at  the  end  of  Lon- 
don Bridge,  recrossing  it,  going  back  again,  passing  on  to 
Saint  George's  Church,  turning  back  suddenly  once  more, 
and  flitting  in  at  the  open  outer  gate  and  little  court-yard  of 
the  Marshalsea. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  85 


CHAPTER  VIIL 

THE   LOCK. 

Arthur  Clennam  stood  in  the  street,  waiting  to  ask  some 
passer-by  what  place  that  was.  He  suffered  a  few  people  to 
pass  him  in  whose  faces  there  was  no  encouragement  to 
make  the  inquiry,  and  still  stood  pausing  in  the  street,  when 
an  old  man  came  up  and  turned  into  the  court-yard. 

He  stooped  a  good  deal,  and  plodded  along  in  a  slow  pre- 
occupied manner, which  made  the  bustling  London  thorough- 
fares no  very  safe  resort  for  him.  He  was  dirtily  and 
meanly  dressed  in  a  threadbare  coat,  once  blue,  reaching  to 
his  ankles  and  buttoned  to  his  chin,  where  it  vanished  in  the 
pale  ghost  of  a  velvet  collar.  A  piece  of  red  cloth  with 
which  that  phantom  had  been  stiffened  in  its  lifetime  was 
now  laid  bare,  and  poked  itself  up  the  back  of  the  old  man's 
neck,  into  a  confusion  of  gray  hair  and  rusty  stock  and 
buckle  which  altogether  nearly  poked  his  hat  off.  A  greasy 
hat  it  was,  and  a  napless;  impending  over  his  eyes,  cracked 
and  crumpled  at  the  brim,  and  with  a  wisp  of  pocket  hand- 
kerchief dangling  out  below  it.  His  trowsers  were  so  long 
and  loose,  and  his  shoes  so  clumsy  and  large,  that  he  shuffled 
like  an  elephant  ;  though  how  much  of  this  was  gait,  and 
how  much  trailing  cloth  and  leather,  no  one  could  have 
told.  Under  one  arm  he  carried  a  limp  and  worn-out  case, 
containing  some  wind  instrument;  in  the  same  hand  he  had 
a  pennyworth  of  snuff  in  a  little  packet  of  whitey-brown 
paper,  from  which  he  slowly  comforted  his  poor  old  blue 
nose  with  a  lengthened-out  pinch,  as  Arthur  Clennam 
looked  at  him. 

To  this  old  man,  crossing  the  court-yard,  he  preferred  his 
inquiry,  touching  him  on  the  shoulder.  The  old  man 
stopped  and  looked  round  with  the  expression  in  his  weak 
gray  eyes  of  one  whose  thoughts  had  been  far  off,  and  who 
was  a  little  dull  of  hearing  also. 

"  Pray,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  repeating  his  question,  "  what  is 
this  place  ?  " 

**  Ay  !  This  place  ? "  returned  the  old  man,  staying  his 
pinch  of  snuff  on  its  road,  and  pointing  at  the  place  without 
looking  at  it.     "  This  is  the  Marshalsea,  sir." 

*'  The  debtors'  prison  ?  " 

"Sir,"  said  the  old   man,  with  the  air  of   deeming  it  not 


86  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

quite  necessary  to  insist  upon  that  designation,  "  the  debtors' 
prison." 

He  turned  himself  about,  and  went  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Arthur,  stopping  him  once 
more,  ^*  but  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  another  question  ? 
Can  any  one  go  in  here  ?  " 

"  Any  one  can  go  in,''  replied  the  old  man;  plainly 
adding  by  the  significance  of  his  emphasis,  "  but  it  is  not 
every  one  who  can  go  out." 

^'  Pardon  me  once  more.  Are  you  familiar  with  the  place  T* 

*'Sir,"  returned  the  old  man,  squeezing  his  little  packet  of 
snuff  in  his  hand,  and  turning  upon  his  interrogator  as  if 
such  questions  hurt  him.     '*  I  am." 

*'  I  beg  you  to  excuse  me.  I  am  not  impertinenj;ly  curious, 
but  have  a  good  object.  Do  you  know  the  name  of  Dorrit 
here  ?  " 

"  My  name,  sir,"  replied  the  old  man  most  unexpectedly, 
'*  is  Dorrit." 

Arthur  pulled  off  his  hat  to  him.  "  Grant  me  the  favor  of 
half-a-dozen  words.  I  was  wholly  unprepared  for  your 
announcement,  and  hope  th^.t  assurance  is  my  sufficient 
apology  for  having  taken  the  liberty  of  addressing  you.  I 
have  recently  come  home  to  England  after  a  long  absence. 
I  have  seen  at  my  mother's — Mrs.  Clennam  in  the  city — a 
young  woman  working  at  her  needle,  whom  I  have  only  heard 
addressed  or  spoken  of  as  Little  Dorrit.  I  have  felt  sin- 
cerely interested  in  her,  and  have  had  a  great  desire  to  know 
something  more  about  her.  I  saw  her,  not  a  minute  before 
you  came  up,  pass  in  at  the  door." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  attentively.  "  Are  you  a 
sailor,  sir  .?"  he  asked.  He  seemed  a  little  disappointed  by 
the  shake  of  the  head  that  replied  to  him.  ^'  Not  a  sailor  .? 
I  judged  from  your  sunburned  face  that  you  might  be.  Are 
you  in  earnest,  sir  ?  " 

**  I  do  assure  you  that  I  am,  and  do  entreat  you  to  believe 
that  I  am,  in  plain  earnest." 

'*  1  know  very  little  of  the  world,  sir,**  returned  the  other, 
who  had  a  weak  and  quavering  voice.  **  I  am  merely  passing 
on,  like  the  shadow  over  the  sun-dial.  It  would  be  worth 
no  man's  while  to  mislead  me  ;  it  would  really  be  too  easy — 
too  poor  a  success,  to  yield  any  satisfaction.  The  young 
woman  whom  you  saw  go  in  here  is  my  brother's  child.  My 
brother  is  William  Dorrit  ;  I  am  Frederick.  You  say  you 
have  seen  her  at  your  mother's  (I  know  your  mother  befriends 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  87 

her),  you  have  felt  an  interest  in  her,  and  you  wish  to  know 
what  she  does  here.     Come  and  see." 

He  went  on  again,  and  Arthur  accompanied  him. 

*^  My  brother,"  said  the  old  man,  pausing  on  the  step,  and 
slowly  facing  round  again,  "  has  been  here  many  years  ;  and 
much  that  happens  even  among  ourselves,  out  of  doors,  is 
kept  from  him  for  reasons  that  I  needn't  enter  upon  now. 
Be  so  good  as  to  say  nothing  of  my  niece's  working  at  her 
needle.  Be  so  good  as  to  say  nothing  that  goes  beyond  what 
is  said  among  us.  If  you  keep  within  our  bounds,  you  can 
not  well  be  wrong.     Now  !     Come  and  see." 

Arthur  followed  him  down  a  narrow  entry,  at  the  end  of 
which  a  key  was  turned,  and  a  strong  door  was  opened  from 
within.  It  admitted  them  into  a  lodge  or  lobby,  across  which 
they  passed,  and  so  through  another  door  and  a  grating  into 
the  prison.  The  old  man  always  plodding  on  before,  turned 
round,  in  his  slow,  stiff,  stooping  manner,  when  they  came 
to  the  turnkey  on  duty,  as  if  to  present  his  companion.  The 
turnkey  nodded;  and  the  companion  passed  in  without  being 
asked  whom  he  wanted. 

The  night  was  dark  ;  and  the  prison  lamps  in  the  yard, 
and  the  candles  in  the  prison  windows  faintly  shining  behind 
many  sorts  of  wry  old  curtain  and  blind,  had  not  the  air  of 
making  it  lighter.  A  few  people  loitered  about,  but  the 
greater  part  of  the  population  was  within  doors.  The  old 
man  taking  the  right-hand  side  of  the  yard,  turned  in  at  the 
third  or  fourth  doorway,  and  began  to  ascend  the  stairs. 
"  They  are  rather  dark,  sir,  but  you  will  not  find  any  thing 
in  the  way." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  before  opening  a  door  on  the 
second  story.  He  had  no  sooner  turned  the  handle  than  the 
visitor  saw  Dorrit,  and  saw  the  reason  of  her  setting  so  much 
store  by  dining  alone. 

She  had  brought  the  meat  home  that  she  should  have  eaten 
herself,  and  was  already  warming  it  on  a  gridiron  over  the 
fire,  for  her  father,  clad  in  an  old  gray  gown  and  a  black 
cap,  awaiting  his  supper  at  the  table.  A  clean  cloth  was 
spread  before  him,  with  knife,  fork,  and  spoon,  salt-cellar, 
pepper-box,  glass,  and  pewter  ale-pot.  Such  zests  as  his  par- 
ticular little  phial  of  cayenne  pepper,  and  his  pennyworth  of 
pickels  in  a  saucer,  were  not  wanting. 

She  started,  colored  deeply,  and  turned  white.  The  vis- 
itor, more  with  his  eyes  than  by  the  slight  impulsive  motion 
of  his  hand,  entreated  her  to  be  reassured  and  to  trust  him. 


88  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  I  found  this  gentleman,"  said  the  uncle — **  Mr.  Clennam, 
William,  son  of  Amy's  friend — at  the  outer  gate,  wishful,  as 
he  was  going  by,  of  paying  his  respects,  but  hesitating  whether 
to  come  in  or  not.     This  is  my  brother  William,  sir." 

''  I  hope,"  said  Arthur,  very  doubtful  what  to  say,  "  that 
my  respect  for  your  daughter  may  explain  and  justify  my 
desire  to  be  presented  to  you,  sir." 

*'  Mr.  Clennam,"  returned  the  other,  rising,  taking  his  cap 
off  in  the  flat  of  his  hand,  and  so  holding  it,  ready  to  put  on 
again,  "  you  do  me  honor.     You  are  welcome,  sir."     With  a 
low  bow.     "  Frederick,  a  chair.     Pray  sit  down,  Mr.  Clen 
nam." 

He  put  his  black  cap  on  again  as  he  had  taken  it  off,  and 
resumed  his  own  seat.  There  was  a  w^onderful  air  of  benig- 
nity and  patronage  in  his  manner.  These  were  the  ceremo- 
nies with  which  he  received  the  collegians. 

''  You  are  welcome  to  the  Marshalsea,  sir.  I  have  wel- 
comed many  gentlemen  to  these  walls.  Perhaps  you  are 
aware — my  daughter  Amy  may  have  mentioned — that  I  am 
the  father  of  this  place." 

''  I — so  I  have  understood,"  said  Arthur,  dashing  at  the 
assertion. 

*'  You  know,  I  dare  say,  that  my  daughter  Amy  was  born 
here.  A  good  girl,  sir,  a  dear  girl,  and  long  a  comfort  and 
support  to  me.  Amy,  my  dear,  put  the  dish  on;  Mr.  Clen- 
nam will  excuse  the  primitive  customs  to  which  w^e  are  re- 
duced here.  Is  it  a  compliment  to  ask  you  if  you  would  do 
me  the  honor,  sir,  to — " 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Arthur.     "  Not  a  morsel." 

He  felt  himself  quite  lost  in  wonder  at  the  manner  of  the 
man,  and  that  the  probability  of  his  daughter's  having  had  a 
reserve  as  to  her  family  history,  should  be  so  far  out  of  his 
mind. 

She  filled  his  glass,  put  all  the  little  matters  on  the  table 
ready  to  his  hand,  and  then  sat  beside  him  while  he  ate  his 
supper.  Evidently  in  observance  of  their  nightly  custom, 
she  put  some  bread  before  herself,  and  touched  his  glass 
with  her  lips;  but  Arthur  saw  she  was  troubled  and  took 
nothing.  Her  look  at  her  father,  half  admiring  him  and 
proud  of  him,  half  ashamed  for  him,  all  devoted  and  loving, 
went  to  his  inmost  heart. 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  condescended  toward  his 
brother  as  an  amiable,  well-meaning  man;  a  private  character 
who  had  not  arrived  at  distinction.     "  Frederick,"  said  he, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  '  89 

"you  and   Fanny  sup  at  your  lodgings  to-night,   I  know. 
What  have  you  done  with  Fanny,  Frederick  ?  " 

"  She  is  walking  with  Tip." 

'*  Tip — as  you  may  know — is  my  son,  Mr.  Clennam.  He 
has  been  a  little  wild,  and  difficult  to  settle,  but  his  introduc- 
tion to  the  world  was  rather" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  a  faint  sigh,  and  looked  round  the  room — "  a  little  ad- 
verse.    Your  first  visit  here,  sir  ?  " 

*'My  first." 

"  You  could  hardly  have  been  here  since  your  boyhood 
without  my  knowledge.  It  very  seldom  happens  that  any 
body — of  any  pretentions — any  pretentions — comes  here 
without  being  presented  to  me." 

"  As  many  as  forty  or  fifty  in  a  day  have  been  introduced 
to  my  brother,"  said  Frederick,  faintly  lighting  up  with  a  ray 
of  pride. 

"  Yes  !  "  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  assented.  **  We  have 
even  exceeded  that  number.  On  a  fine  Sunday  in  term-time, 
it  is  quite  a  levee — quite  a  levee.  Amy,  my  dear,  I  have 
been  trying  half  the  day  to  remember  the  name  of  the  gentle- 
man from  Camberwell  who  was  introduced  to  me  last  Christ- 
mas week,  by  that  agreeable  coal-merchant  who  was 
remanded  for  six  months." 

**  I  don't  remember  his  name,  father." 

"  Frederick,  do  yc^u  remember  his  name  ?  " 

Frederick  doubted  if  he  had  ever  heard  it.  No  one  could' 
doubt  that  Frederick  was  the  last  person  upon  earth  to  put 
such  a  question  to,  with  any  hope  of  information. 

*'  I  mean,"  said  his  brother,  '*  the  gentleman  who  did  that 
handsome  action  with  so  much  delicacy.  Ha!  Tush!  The 
name  has  quite  escaped  me.  Mr.  Clennam,  as  I  have  hap- 
pened to  mention  a  handsome  and  delicate  action,  you  may 
like,  perhaps,  to  know  what  it  was." 

*'  Very  much,"  said  Arthur,  withdrawing  his  eyes  from  the 
delicate  head  beginning  to  droop,  and  the  pale  face  with  a 
new  solicitude  stealing  over  it. 

^'  It  is  so  generous,  and  shows  so  much  fine  feeling,  that  it 
is  almost  a  duty  to  mention  it.  I  said  at  the  time  that  I  a*!- 
ways  would  mention  it  on  every  suitable  occasion,  without 
regard  to  personal  sensitiveness.  A — well — a — it's  of  no  use 
to  disguise  the  fact — you  must  know,  Mr.  Oennam,  that  it 
does  sometimes  occur  that  people  who  come  here,  desire 
to  offer  some  little — testimonial — to  the  father  of  the  place." 

To  see  her  hand  upon  his  arm  in  mute  entreaty  half  re* 


90  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

*>ressed,  and  her  timid  little  shrinking  figure  turning  away^ 
was  to  see  a  sad,  sad  sight. 

''  Sometimes,"  he  went  on  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  agitated, 
and  clearing  his  throat  every  now  and  then;  "sometimes — 
hem — it  takes  one  shape  and  sometimes  another;  but  it  is 
generally — ha — money.  And  it  is,  I  can  not  but  confess  it,  it 
is  too  often — hem — acceptable.  This  gentleman  that  I  refer 
to,  was  presented  to  me,  Mr.  Clennam,  in  a  manner  highly 
gratifying  to  my  feelings,  and  conversed  not  only  with  great 
politeness,  but  with  great — ahem — information."  All  this 
time,  though  he  had  finished  his  supper,  he  was  nervously 
going  about  his  plate  with  his  knife  and  fork,  as  if  some  of 
it  were  still  before  him.  *^  It  appeared  from  his  conversation 
that  he  had  a  garden,  though  he  was  delicate  of  mentioning 
it  at  first,  as  gardens  are — hem — are  not  accessible  to  me. 
But  it  came  out,  through  my  admiring  a  very  fine  cluster  of 
geranium — beautiful  cluster  of  geranium  to  be  sure — which 
he  had  brought  from  his  conservatory.  On  my  taking 
notice  of  its  rich  color,  he  showed  me  a  piece  of  paper 
round  it,  on  which  was  written,  ^  For  the  father  of  the 
Marshalsea,'  and  presented  it  to  me.  But  this  was — hem — 
not  all.  He  made  a  particular  request,  on  taking  leave, 
that  I  would  remove  the  paper  in  half  an  hour.  I — ha — I 
did  so;  and  I  found  that  it  contained — ahem — two  guineas. 
I  assure  you,  Mr.  Clennam,  I  have  received — hem — testi- 
monials in  many  ways,  and  of  many  degrees  of  "value,  and 
they  have  always  been — ha — unfortunately  acceptable;  but 
I  never  was  more  pleased  than  with  this-^ahem — this  par- 
ticular testimonial." 

Arthur  was  in  the  act  of  saying  the  little  he  could  say  on 
such  a  theme,  when  a  bell  began  to  ring,  and  footsteps 
approached  the  door.  A  pretty  girl  of  a  far  better  figure 
and  much  more  developed  than  Little  Dorrit,  though  look- 
ing much  younger  in  the  face  when  the  two  were  observed 
together,  stopped  in  the  doorway  on  seeing  a  stranger;  and 
a  young  man  who  was  with  her  stopped  too. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  Fanny.  My  eldest  daughter  and  my  son, 
Mr.  Clennam.  The  bell  is  a  signal  for  visitors  to  retire, 
and  so  they  have  come  to  say  good-night;  but  there  is  plenty 
of  time,  plenty  of  time.  Girls,  Mr.  Clennam  will  excuse  any 
household  business  you  may  have  together.  He  knows,  I 
dare  say,  that  I  have  but  one  room  here." 

"  I  only  want  my  clean  dress  from  Amy,  father,"  said  the 
second  girl, 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


91 


"And  I  my  clothes,"  said  Tip. 

Amy  opened  a  drawer  in  an  old  piece  of  furniture  that  was 
a  chest  of  drawers  above,  and  a  bedstead  below,  and  pro- 
duced two  little  bundles,  which  she  handed  to  her  brother 
and  sister.  '^  Mended  and  made  up  ?  "  Clennam  heard  the 
sister  ask  in  a  whisper.  To  which  Amy  answered  "  Yes." 
He  had  risen  now,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  glancing 
round  the  room.  The  bare  walls  had  been  colored  green, 
evidently  by  an  unskilled  hand,  and  were  poorly  decorated 
with  a  few  prints.  The  window  was  curtained  and  the  floor 
carpeted  ;  and  there  were  shelves  and  pegs,  and  other  such 
conveniences,  that  had  accumulated  in  the  course  of  years. 
It  was  a  close,  confined  room,  poorly  furnished;  and  the 
chimney  smoked  to  boot,  or  the  tin  screen  at  the  top  of  the 
fire-place  was  superfluous;  but  constant  pains  and  care  had 
made  it  neat,  and  even,  after  its  kind,  comfortable. 

All  the  while  the  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  uncle  was 
anxious  to  go.  "  Come,  Fanny,  come,  Fanny,"  he  said,  with 
his  ragged  clarionet  case  under  his  arm;  **  the  lock,  child, 
the  lock  !  " 

Fanny  bade  her  father  good-night,  and  whisked  off  airily. 
Tip  had  already  clattered  down  stairs.  "  Now,  Mr.  Clen- 
nam," said  the  uncle,  looking  back  as  he  shuffled  out  after 
them,  "  the  lock,  sir,  the  lock." 

Mr.  Clennam  had  twa  things  to  do  before  he  followed; 
one,  to  offer  his  testimonial  to  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea, 
without  giving  pain  to  his  child;  the  other  to  say  something 
to  that  child,  though  it  were  but  a  word,  in  explanation  of 
his  having  come  there. 

"Allow  me,"  said  the  father,  "  to  see  you  down  stairs." 

She  had  slipped  out  after  the  rest,  and  they  were  alone. 
"  Not  on  any  account,"  said  the  visitor,  hurriedly.  "  Pray 
allow  me  to — "  chink,  chink,  chink. 

**  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  the  father,  ^*  I  am  deeply,  deeply — " 
But  his  visitor  had  shut  up  his  hand  to  stop  the  chinking, 
and  had  gone  down  stairs  with  great  speed. 

He  saw  no  Little  Dorrit  on  his  way  down,  or  in  the  yard. 
The  last  two  or  three  stragglers  were  hurrying  to  the  lodge, 
and  he  was  following,  when  he  caught  sight  of  her  in  the 
doorway  of  the  first  house  from  the  entrance.  He  turned 
back  hastily. 

**  Pray  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "  for  speaking  to  you  here, 
pray  forgive  me  for  coming  here  at  all  !  I  followed  you  to- 
night.    I  did  sOy  that  1  might  endeavor  to  render  you  and 


92  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

your  family  some  service.  You  know  the  terms  on  which  I 
and  my  mother  are,  and  may  not  be  surprised  that  I  have 
preserved  our  distant  relations  at  her  house,  lest  I  should 
unintentionally  make  her  jealous,  or  resentful,  or  do  you 
any  injury  in  her  estimation.  What  I  have  seen  here,  in 
this  short  time,  has  greatly  increased  my  heartfelt  wish  to  be 
a  friend  to  you.  It  would  recompense  me  for  much  disap- 
pointment if  I  could  hope  to  gain  your  confidence." 

She  was  scared  at  first,  but  seemed  to  take  courage  while 
he  spoke  to  her. 

*^  You  are  very  good,  sir.  You  speak  very  earnestly  to  me. 
But  I — but  1  wish  you  had  not  watched  me." 

He  understood  the  emotion  with  which  she  said  it,  to 
arise  in  her  father's  behalf  ;  and  he  respected  it,  and  was 
silent. 

'^  Mrs.  Clennam  has  been  of  great  service  to  me  ;  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done  without  the  employment 
she  has  given  me  ;  I  am  afraid  it  may  not  be  a  good  return 
to  become  secret  with  her  ;  I  can  say  no  more  to-night, 
sir.  I  am  sure  you  mean  to  be  kind  to  us.  Thank  you, 
thank  you." 

"  Let  me  ask  you  one  question  before  I  leave.  Have  you 
known  my  mother  long  ?  " 

**  I  think  two  years,  sir. — The  bell  has  stopped." 

"  How  did  you  know  her  first  ?  Did  she  send  here  for 
you  ? " 

*'No.  She  does  not  even  know  that  I  live  here.  We 
have  a  friend,  father  and  I — a  poor,  laboring  man,  but  the 
best  of  friends — and  I  wrote  out  that  I  wished  to  do  needle- 
work, and  gave  his  address.  And  he  got  what  I  wrote  out 
displayed  at  a  few  places  where  it  cost  nothing,  and  Mrs. 
Clennam  found  me  that  way,  and  sent  for  me.  The  gate 
will  be  locked,  sir  !  " 

She  was  so  tremulous  and  agitated,  and  he  was  so  moved 
by  compassion  for  her,  and  by  deep  interest  in  her  story  as 
it  dawned  upon  him,  that  he  could  scarcely  tear  himself 
away.  But  the  stoppage  of  the  bell,  and  the  quiet  in  the 
prison,  were  a  warning  to  depart  ;  and  with  a  few  hurried 
words  of  kindness  he  left  her  gliding  back  to  her  father. 

But  he  had  remained  too  late.  The  inner  gate  was  locked^ 
and  the  lodge  closed.  After  a  little  fruitless  knocking  with 
his  hand,  he  was  standing  there  with  the  disagreeable  con- 
viction upon  him  that  he  had  to  get  through  the  night  when 
a  voice  accosted  him  from  behind. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  93 

**  Caught,  eh  ?"  said  the  voice.  /*  You  won't  go  home  till 
morning. — Oh  !     It's  you,  is  it,  Mr.  Clennam  ?" 

The  "voice  was  Tip's  ;  and  they  stood  looking  at  one 
another  in  the  prison-yard,  as  it  began  to  rain. 

"  You've  done  it,"  observed  Tip  ;  ^^  you  must  be  sharper 
than  that  next  time." 

*'  But  you  are  locked  in  too,"  said  Arthur. 

''  I  believe  I  am  !  "  said  Tip,  sarcastically.  "  About ! 
Eut  not  in  your  way.  I  belong  to  the  shop,  only  my  sister  has 
c  theory  that  our  governor  must  never  know  it.  I  don't  see 
why,  myself."  ^ 

''  Can  I  get  any  shelter  ?  "  asked  Arthur.  ''  What  had  I 
"better  do  ? " 

*'  We  had  better  get  hold  of  Amy  first  of  all,"  said  Tip,  re- 
ferring any  difficulty  to  her  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"  I  would  rather  walk  about  all  night — it's  not  much  to  do 
^than  give  that  trouble." 

^'  You  needn't  do  that,  if  you  don't  mind  paying  for  a 
bed.  If  you  don't  mind  paying,  they'll  make  you  up  one  on 
the  Snuggery  table,  under  the  circumstances.  If  you'll  come 
along,  I'll  introduce  you  there.'* 

As  they  passed  down  the  yard,  Arthur  looked  up  at  the 
window  of  the  room  he  had  lately  left,  where  the  light  was 
still  burning.  "  Yes,  sir,"  said  Tip,  following  his  glance. 
'*  That's  the  governor's.  She'll  sit  with  him  for  another  hour 
reading  yesterday's  paper  to  him,  or  something  of  that  sort  ; 
and  then  she'll  come  out  like  a  little  ghost,  and  vanish  away 
without  a  sound." 

*'  I  don't  understand  you." 

*'  The  governor  sleeps  up  in  the  room,  and  she  has  a  lodg- 
ing at  the  turnkey's.  First  house  there,"  said  Tip,  pointing 
out  the  doorway  into  which  she  had  retired.  "  First  house, 
sky  parlor.  She  pays  tv/ice  as  much  for  it  as  she  would  for 
one  twice  as  good  outside.  But  she  stands  by  the  governor, 
poor  dear  girl,  day  and  night." 

This  brought  them  to  the  tavern-establishment  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  prison  where  the  collegians  had  just  vacated 
their  social  evening  club.  The  apartment  on  the  ground- 
floor  in  which  it  was  held,  was  the  Snuggery  in  question  ; 
the  presidential  tribune  of  the  chairman,  the  pewter-pots, 
glasses,  pipes,  tobacco-ashes,  and  general  flavor  of  members, 
were  still  as  that  convivial  institution  had  left  them  on  its 
adjournment.  The  Snuggery  had  two  of  the  qualities  popu- 
larly held  to  be  essential  to  grog  for  ladies,  in  respect  that  it 


94  LITTLE  DORRiT. 

was  hot  and  strong  ;  but  in  the  third  point  of  analogy,  re- 
quiring plenty  of  it,  the  Snuggery  was  defective  ;  being  but  a 
cooped-up  apartment. 

The  unaccustomed  visitor  from  outside,  naturally  assumed 
every  body  here  to  be  prisoners — landlord,  waiter,  bar-maid, 
pot  boy,  and  all.  Whether  they  were  or  not,  did  not  appear  ; 
but  they  all  had  a  weedy  look.  The  keeper  of  a  chandler's 
shop  in  a  front  parlor,  who  took  in  gentleman  boarders,  lent 
his  assistance  in  making  the  bed.  He  had  been  a  tailor  in 
his  time,  and  had  kept  a  phaeton,  he  said.  He  boasted  that 
he  stood' up  litigiously  for  the  interests  of  the  college  ;  and 
he  had  undefined  and  undefinable  ideas  that  the  marshal  in- 
tercepted a  "fund,"  which  ought  to  come  to  the  collegians. 
He  liked  to  believe  this,  and  always  impressed  the  shadowy 
grievance  on  nev/-comers  and  strangers  ;  though  he  could 
not,  for  his  life,  have  explained  what  fund  he  meant,  or  how 
the  notion  had  got  rooted  in  his  soul.  He  had  fully 
convinced  himself,  notwithstanding,  that  his  own  proper  share 
of  the  fund  was  three-and-ninepence  a  week  ;  and  that  in 
this  amount  he,  as  an  individual  collegian,  was  swindled 
by  the  marshal,  regularly  every  Monday.  Apparently,  he 
helped  to  make  the  bed  that  he  might  nojt  lose  an  oppor- 
tunity of  stating  this  case  ;  after  which  unloading  of  his 
mind,  and  after  announcing  (as  it  seemed  he  always  did, 
without  any  thing  coming  of  it)  that  he  was  going  to  write 
a  letter  to  the  papers  and  show  the  marshal  up,  he  fell 
into  miscellaneous  conversation  with  the  rest.  It  was  ev- 
ident, from  the  general  tone  of  the  whole  party,  that  they 
had  come  to  regard  insolvency  as  the  normal  state  of  man- 
kind, and  the  payment  of  debts  as  a  disease  that  occasion- 
ally broke  out. 

In  this  strange  scene,  and  with  these  strange  specters  flit- 
ting about  him,  Arthur  Clennam  looked  on  at  the  prepara- 
tions, as  if  they  were  part  of  a  dream.  Pending  which,  the 
long-initiated  Tip,  with  an  awful  enjoyment  of  the  Snug- 
gery's resources,  pointed  out  the  common  kitchen  fire 
maintained  by  subscription  of  collegians,  the  boiler  for 
hot  water  supported  in  like  manner,  and  other  premises 
generally  tending  to  the  deduction  that  the  way  to  be 
healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise,  was  to  come  to  the  Marshalsea. 

The  two  tables  put  together  in  a  corner,  were,  at  length, 
converted  into  a  very  fair  bed  ;  and  the  stranger  was  left  to 
the  Windsor  chairs,  the  presidential  tribune,  the  beery 
atmosphere,     sawdust,   pipe-lights,   spittoons    and    repose. 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


95 


But  the  last  item  was  long,  long,  long,  in  linking  itself  to 
the  rest.  The  novelty  of  the  place,  the  coming  upon  it 
without  preparation,  the  sense  of  being  locked  up,  the  re- 
membrance of  that  room  up  stairs,  of  the  two  brothers,  and 
above  all  of  the  retiring  childish  form,  and  the  face  in 
which  he  now  saw  years  of  insufficient  food,  if  not  of  want, 
kept  him  waking  and  unhappy. 

Speculations,  too,  bearing  the  strangest  relations  toward 
the  prison,  but  always  concerning  the  prison,  ran  like  night- 
mares through  his  mind  while  he  lay  awake.  Whether 
coffins  were  kept  ready  for  people  who  might  die  there, 
where  they  were  kept,  how  they  were  kept,  where  people 
who  died  in  the  prison  where  buried,  how  they  were  taken 
out,  what  forms  were  observed,  whether  an  implacable  cred- 
itor could  arrest  the  dead  ?  As  to  escaping,  what  chances 
there  were  of  escape  ?  Whether  a  prisoner  could  scale  the 
walls  with  a  cord  and  grapple,  how  he  would  descend  upon 
the  other  side  :  whether  he  could  alight  on  a  housetop,  steal 
down  a  staircase,  let  himself  out  of  a  door,  and  get  lost  in 
the  crowd  !  As  to  fire  in  the  prison,  if  one  were  to  break 
out  while  he  lay  there  ! 

And  these  involuntary  starts  of  fancy  were,  after  all,  but 
the  setting  of  a  picture  in  which  three  people  kept  before 
him.  His  father,  with  the  steadfast  look  with  which  he  had 
died,  prophetically  darkened  forth  in  the  portrait  ;  his 
mother,  with  her  arm  up,  warding  off  his  suspicion  ;  Little 
Dorrit,  with  her  hand  on  the  degraded  arm,  and  her  droop- 
ing head  turned  away. 

What  if  his  mother  had  an  old  reason  she  well  knew 
for  softening  to  this  poor  girl  !  What  if  the  prisoner 
now  sleeping  quietly — heaven  grant  it  ! — by  the  light  of 
the  great  Day  of  Judgment  should  trace  back  his  fall  to 
her.  What  if  any  acts  of  hers,  and  of  his  father's,  should 
have  even  remotely  brought  the  gray  heads  of  those  two 
brothers  so  low  ! 

A  swift  thought  shot  into  his  mind.  In  that  long  impris- 
onment here,  and  in  her  own  long  confinemxcnt  to  her  room, 
did  his  mother  find  a  balance  to  be  struck  ?  I  admit  that  I 
was  accessory  to  that  man's  captivity.  I  have  suffered  for 
it  in  kind.  He  has  decayed  in  his  prison  ;  I  in  mine.  I 
have  paid  the  penalty. 

When  all  the  other  thoughts  had  faded  out,  this  one  held 
possession  of  him.  When  he  fell  asleep,  she  came  before 
him  in  her  wheeled  chair,  warding  him  off  with   this  justifi- 


96  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

cation.  When  he  awoke,  and  sprang  up  causelessly  fright- 
ened, the  words  were  in  his  ears,  as  if  her  voice  had  slowly 
spoken  them  at  his  pillow,  to  break  his  rest  :  ^'  He  withers 
away  in  his  prison  ;  I  wither  away  in  mine  ;  inexorable  jus- 
tice is  done  :  what  do  I  owe  on  this  score  !  '* 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LITTLE      MOTHER. 

The  morning  light  was  in  no  hurry  to  climb  the  prison 
wall  and  look  in  at  the  Snuggery  windows  ;  and  when  it  did 
come,  it  would  have  been  more  welcome  if  it  had  come  alone, 
instead  of  bringing  a  rush  of  rain  with  it  But  the  equinoctial 
gales  were  blowing  out  at  sea,  and  the  impartial  south-west 
v/ind,  in  its  flight,  would  not  neglect  even  the  narrow  Marsh- 
alsea.  While  it  roared  through  the  steeple  of  St.  George's 
Church,  and  twirled  all  the  cowls  in  -the  neighborhood,  it 
made  a  swoop  to  beat  the  South wark  smoke  into  the  jail  ; 
and  plunging  down  the  chimneys  of  the  few  early  collegians 
who  were  yet  lighting  their  fires,  half  suffocated  them. 

Arthur  Clennam  would  have  been  little  disposed  to  linger 
in  bed,  though  his  bed  had  been  in  a  more  private  situation 
and  less  affected  by  the  raking  out  of  yesterday's  fire,  the 
kindling  of  to-day's  under  the  collegiate  boiler,  the  filling  of 
that  Spartan  vessel  at  the  pump,  the  sweeping  and  sawdusting 
of  the  common  room,  and  other  such  preparations.  Heartily 
glad  to  see  the  morning,  though  little  rested  by  the  night,  he 
turned  out  as  soon  as  he  could  distinguish  objects  about 
him,  and  paced  the  yard  for  two  heavy  hours  before  the  gate 
was  opened. 

The  walls  were  so  near  to  one  another,  and  the  wild  clouds 
hurried  over  them  so  fast,  that  it  gave  them  a  sensation  like 
the  beginning  of  sea-sickness  to  look  up  at  the  gusty  sky. 
The  rain,  carried  aslant  by  flaws  of  wind,  blackened  that  side 
of  the  central  building  which  he  had  visited  last  night,  but 
left  a  narrow  dry  trough  under  the  lee  of  the  wall,  where  he 
walked  up  and  down  among  waifs  of  straw  and  dust  and 
paper,  the  waste  droppings  of  the  pump,  and  the  stray  leaves 
of  yesterday's  greens.  It  was  as  haggard  a  view  of  life  as  a 
man  need  look  upon. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  97 

Nor  was  it  relieved  by  any  glimpse  of  the  little  creature 
who  had  brought  him  there.  Perhaps  she  glided  out  of  her 
doorway  and  in  at  that  where  her  father  lived,  while  his  face 
was  turned  from  both;  but  he  saw  nothing  of  her.  It  was  too 
early  for  her  brother;  to  have  seen  him  once,  was  to  have 
seen  enough  of  him  to  know  that  he  would  be  sluggish 
to  leave  whatever  frowsy  bed  he  occupied  at  night;  so,  as 
Arthur  Clennam  walked  up  and  down,  waiting  for  the  gate 
to  open,  he  cast  about  in  his  mind  for  future  rather  than  for 
present  means  of  pursuing  his  discoveries. 

At  last  the  lodge-gate  turned,  and  the  turnkey,  standing 
on  the  step,  taking  an  early  comb  at  his  hair,  was  ready  to 
let  him  out.  With  a  joyful  sense  of  release  he  passed  through 
the  lodge,  and  found  himself  again  in  the  little  outer  court- 
yard where  he  had  spoken  to  the  brother  last  night. 

There  was  a  string  of  people  already  straggling  in,  whom 
it  was  not  difficult  to  identify  as  the  nondescript  messengers, 
go-betweens,  and  errand-bearers  of  the  place.  Some  of  them 
had  been  lounging  in  the  rain  until  the  gate  should  open  ; 
others,  who  had  timed  their  arrival  with  greater  nicety,  were 
coming  up  now  and  passing  in  v/ith  damp  whitey-brown  paper 
bags  from  the  grocers,  loaves  of  bread,  lumps  of  butter,  eggs, 
milk,  and  the  like.  The  shabbiness  of  these  attendants  upon 
shabbiness,  the  poverty  of  these  insolvent  waiters  upon  insol- 
vency, was  a  sight  to  see.  Such  threadbare  coats  and  trowsers, 
such  fusty  gowns  and  shawls,  such  squashed  hats  and  bonnets, 
such  boots  and  shoes,  such  umbrellas  and  walking-sticks, 
never  were  seen  in  Rag  Fair.  All  of  them  w^ore  the  cast-off 
clothes  of  other  men  and  women;  were  made  up  of  patches 
and  pieces  of  other  people's  individuality,and  had  no  sartorial 
existence  of  their  own  proper.  Their  walk  w^as  the  walk  of  a 
race  apart.  They  had  a  peculiar  way  of  doggedly  slinking 
round  the  corner,  as  if  they  were  eternally  going  to  the  pawn- 
broker's. When  they  coughed,  they  coughed  like  people 
accustomed  to  be  forgotten  on  door-steps  and  in  draughty 
passages,  waiting  for  answers  to  letters  in  faded  ink,  which 
gave  the  recipients  of  those  manuscripts  great  mental  dis- 
turbance and  no  satisfaction.  As  they  eyed  the  stranger  in 
passing,  they  eyed  him  with  borrowing  eyes — hungry,  sharp, 
speculative  as  to  his  softness  if  they  were  accredited  to  him, 
and  the  likelihood  of  his  standing  something  handsome. 
Mendicity  on  commission  stooped  in  their  high  shoulders, 
shambled  in  their  unsteady  legs,  buttoned  and  pinned  and 
darned  and  dragged  their  clothes,  frayed  their  button-holes, 


98  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

leaked  out  of  their  figures  in  dirty  little  ends  of  tape,    and 
issued  from  their  mouths  in  alcoholic  breathings. 

As  these  people  passed  him  standing  still  in  the  court- 
yard, and  one  of  them  turned  back  to  inquire  if  he  could 
assist  him  with  his  services,  it  came  into  Arthur  Clennam's 
mind  that  he  would  speak  to  Dorrit  again  before  he  went 
away.  She  would  have  recovered  her  first  surprise,  and  might 
feel  easier  with  him.  He  asked  this  member  of  the  fraternity 
(who  had  two  red  herrings  in  his  hand,  and  a  loaf  and  a 
blacking  brush  under  his  arm),  where  was  the  nearest 
place  to  get  a  cup  of  coffee  at.  The  nondescript  replied  in 
encouraging  terms,  and  brought  him  to  a  coffee-shop  in  the 
street  within  a  stone's  throw. 

"  Do  you  know  Miss  Dorrit  ?"  asked  the  new  client. 

The  nondescript  knew  two  Miss  Dorrits;  one  who  was 
born  inside — That  was  the  one  !  That  was  the  one  ?  The 
nondescript  has  known  her  many  years.  In  regard  to  the 
other  Miss  Dorrit,  the  nondescript  lodged  in  the  same  house 
with  herself  and  uncle. 

This  changed  the  client's  half-formed  design  of  remaining 
at  the  coffee-shop  until  the  nondescript  should  bring  him 
word  that  Dorrit  had  issued  forth  into  the  street.  He 
intrusted  the  nondescript  with  a  confidential  message  to  her, 
importing  that  the  visitor  who  had  waited  on  her  father  last 
night,  begged  the  favor  of  a  few  words  with  her  at  her  uncle's 
lodging  ;  he  obtained  from  the  same  source  full  directions 
to  the  house,  which  was  very  near  ;  dismissed  the  nonde- 
script gratified  with  half-a-crown  ;  and  having  hastily 
refreshed  himself  at  the  coffee-shop,  repaired  with  all  speed 
to  the  clarionet-player's  dwelling. 

There  were  so  many  lodgers  in  this  house,  that  the  door- 
post seemed  to  be  as  full  of  bell-handles  as  a  cathedral  organ 
is  of  stops.  Doubtful  which  might  be  the  clarionet-stop,  he 
was  considering  the  point,  when  a  shuttlecock  flew  out  of  the 
parlor  window,  and  alighted  on  his  hat.  He  then  observed 
that  in  the  parlor  window  was  a  blind  with  the  inscription, 
Mr.  Cripples's  Academy  ;  also  in  another  line,  Evening 
Tuition  ;  and  behind  the  blind  was  a  little  white-faced  boy, 
with  a  slice  of  bread-and-butter,  and  a  battledore.  The 
window  being  accessible  from  the  footway,  he  looked  in  over 
the  blind,  returned  the  shuttlecock,  and  put  his  question. 

•"  Dorrit  ?"  said  the  little  white-faced  boy  (Master  Crip- 
ples in  fact).     "  Mr.  Dorrit  ?     Third  bell  and  one  knock." 

The  pupils  of  Mr.  Cripples  appeared  to  have  been  making 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  99 

a  copy-book  of  the  street-door,  it  was  so  extensively  scribbled 
over  in  pencil.  The  frequency  of  the  inscriptions,  *'  Old 
Dorrit,"  and  "  Dirty  Dick,"  in  combination,  suggested  inten- 
tions of  personality  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Cripples's  pupils. 
There  was  ample  time  to  make  these  observations,  before  the 
door  was  opened  by  the  poor  old  man  himself. 

^'  Ha  !  "  said  he,  very  slowly  remembering  Arthur,  "  you 
were  shut  in  last  night  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Dorrit.  I  hope  to  meet  your  niece  here  pres- 
ently." 

**  Oh  !  "  said  he,  pondering.  "  Out  of  my  brother's  way  ? 
True.     Would  you  come  up  stairs  and  wait  for  her  ? " 

"  Thank  you." 

Turning  himself,  as  slowly  as  he  turned  in  his  mind  what- 
ever he  heard  or  said,  he  led  the  way  up  the  narrow  stairs. 
The  house  was  very  close,  and  had  an  unwholesome  smell. 
The  little  staircase  windows  looked  in  at  the  back  windows 
of  other  houses  as  unwholesome  as  itself,  with  poles  and 
lines  thrust  out  of  them,  on  which  unsightly  linen  hung  :  as 
if  the  inhabitants  were  angling  for  clothes,  and  had  had  some 
wretched  bites  not  worth  attending  to.  In  the  back-garret — 
a  sickly  room,  with  a  turn-up  bedstead  in  it,  so  hastily  and 
recently  turned  up  that  the  blankets  were  boiling  over,  as  it 
were,  and  keeping  the  lid  open — a  half- finished  breakfast  of 
coffee  and  toast,  for  two  persons,  was  jumbled  down  anyhow 
on  a  rickety  table. 

There  was  no  one  there.  The  old  man  mumbling  to  him- 
self, after  some  consideration,  that  Fanny  had  run  away,  went 
to  the  next  room  to  fetch  her  back.  The  visitor,  observing 
that  she  held  the  door  on  the  inside,  and  that  when  the  uncle 
tried  to  open  it,  there  was  a  sharp  adjuration  of  "  Don't, 
stupid  !  "  and  an  appearance  of  loose  stocking  and  flannel, 
concluded  that  the  young  lady  was  in  an  undress.  The  uncle, 
without  appearing  to  come  to  any  conclusion,  shuffled  in 
again,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  began  warming  his  hands 
at  the  fire.  Not  that  it  was  cold,  or  that  he  had  any  waking 
idea  whether  it  was  or  not. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  my  brother,  sir  ?  "  he  asked,  when 
he  by  and  by  discovered  what  he  was  doing,  left  off,  reached 
over  to  the  chimney-piece,  and  took  his  clarionet  case  down. 

"  I  was  glad,"  said  Arthur,  very  much  at  a  loss,  for  his 
thoughts  were  on  the  brother  before  him  ;  "  to  find  him  so 
well  and  cheerful." 

"  Ha  !  "  muttered  the  old  man.   "Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes  !  " 


106  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Arthur  wondered  what  he  could  possibly  want  with  the 
clarionet  case.  He  did  not  want  it  at  all.  He  discovered,  in 
due  time,  that  it  was  not  the  little  paper  of  snuff  (which  was 
also  on  the  chimney-piece),  put  it  back  again,  took  down  the 
snuff  instead,  and  solaced  himself  with  a  pinch.  He  was  as 
feeble,  spare,  and  slow  in  his  pinches  as  in  every  thing  else, 
but  a  certain  little  trickling  of  enjoyment  of  them  played  in 
the  poor  worn  nerves  about  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and  mouth. 

*'  Amy,  Mr.  Clennam.     What  do  you  think  of  her  ?  " 

^*  I  am  much  impressed,  Mr.  Dorrit,  by  all  that  I  have 
seen  of  her  and  thought  of  her." 

"  My  brother  would  have  been  quite  lost  without  Amy," 
he  returned.  "  We  should  all  have  been  lost  without  Amy. 
She  is  a  very  good  girl.  Amy.     She  does  her  duty." 

Arthur  fancied  that  he  heard  in  these  praises  a  certain 
tone  of  custom  which  he  had  heard  from  the  father  last  night, 
with  an  inward  protest  and  feeling  of  antagonism.  It  was  not 
that  they  stinted  her  praises,  or  were  insensible  to  what  she 
did  for  them  ;  but  that  they  were  lazily  habituated  to  her,  as 
s  they  were  to  all  the  rest  of  their  condition.  !  He  fancied  that 
\  I  although  they  had  before  them,  every  day,  the  means  of  com- 
^  f  parison  between  her  and  one  another  and  themselves,  they 
regarded  her  as  being  in  her  necessary  place  ;  as  holding  a 
position  toward  them  all  which  belonged  to  her,  like  her 
name  or  her  age.  He  fancied  that  they  viewed  her,  not  as 
having  risen  away  from  the  prison  atmosphere,  but  as  apper- 
taining to  it  ;  as  being  vaguely  what  they  had  a  right  to 
expect,  and  nothing  more.i 

Her  uncle  resumed  his  breakfast,  and  was  munching  toast 
sopped  in  coffee,  oblivious  of  his  guest,  when  the  third  bell 
rang.  That  was  Amy,  he  said,  and  went  down  to  let  her  in  ; 
leaving  the  visitor  with  as  vivid  a  picture  on  his  mind  of  his 
begrimed  hands,  dirt-worn  face,  and  decayed  figure,  as  if 
he  were  still  drooping  in  his  chair. 

She  came  up  after  him  in  the  usual  plain  dress,  and  with 
the  usual  timid  manner.  Her  lips  were  a  little  parted,  as  if 
her  heart  beat  faster  than  usual. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  Amy,"  said  her  uncle,  *^has  been  expect- 
ing you  some  time." 

^*  I  took  the  liberty  of  sending  you  a  message." 

**  I  received  the  message,  sir." 

"Are  you  going  to  my  mother's  this  morning  ?  I  think  not, 
for  it  is  past  your  usual  hour." 

"  Not  to-day,  sir.     I  am  not  wanted  to-day." 


LITTLE  DORRCT.  r^cj 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  walk  a  little  way  in  whatever  direc- 
tion you  may  be  going  ?  I  can  then  speak  to  you  as  we  walk, 
both  without  detaining  you  here,  and  without  intruding  longer 
here  myself." 

She  looked  embarrassed,  bul^aid  if  he  pleased.  He  made 
a  pretense  of  having  mislaid  his  walking-stick,  to  give  her 
time  to  set  the  bedstead  right,  to  answer  her  sister's  impatient 
knock  at  the  wall,  and  to  say  a  word  softly  to  her  uncle. 
Then  he  found  it,  and  they  went  down  stairs  ;  she  first,  he 
following,  the  uncle  standing  at  the  stair-head,  and  probably 
forgetting  them  before  they  had  reached  the  ground  floor. 

Mr.  Cripples's  pupils,  who  were  by  this  time  coming  to 
school,  desisted  from  their  morning  recreation  of  cuffing  one 
another  with  bags  and  books,  to  stare  with  all  the  eyes  they 
had  at  a  stranger  wh6  had  been  to  see  Dirty  Dick.  They 
bore  the  trying  spectacle  in  silence,  until  the  mysterious 
visitor  was  at  a  safe  distance  ;  when  they  burst  into  pebbles 
and  yells,  and  likewise  into  reviling  dances,  and  in  all  respects 
buried  the  pipe  of  peace  with  so  many  savage  ceremonies, 
that  if  Mr.  Cripples  had  been  the  chief  of  the  Cripplewayboo 
tribe  with  his  war  paint  on,  they  could  scarcely  have  done 
greater  justice  to  their  education. 

In  the  midst  of  this  homage,  Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  offered 
his  arm  to  Little  Dorrit,  and  Little  Dorrit  took  it.  "  Will 
you  go  by  the  Iron  Bridge,"  said  he,  "where  there  is  an 
escape  from  the  noise  of  the  street  ?  "  Little  Dorrit  answered, 
if  he  pleased,  and  presently  ventured  to  hope  that  he  would 
'^  not  mind  "  Mr.  Cripples's  boys,  for  she  had  herself  received 
her  education,  such  as  it  was,  in  Mr.  Cripples's  evening 
academy.  He  returned,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  that 
Mr.  Cripples's  boys  were  forgiven  out  of  the  bottom  of  his 
soul.  Thus  did  Cripples  unconsciously  become  a  master  of 
the  ceremonies  between  them,  and  bring  them  more  naturally 
together  than  Beau  Nash  might  have  done  if  they  had  lived  in 
his  golden  days,  and  he  had  alighted  from  his  coach  and  six 
for  the  purpose. 

The  morning  remained  squally,  and  the  streets  were 
miserably  muddy,  but  no  rain  fell  as  they  walked  toward  the 
Iron  Bridge.  The  little  creature  seemed  so  young  in  his 
eyes,  that  there  were  moments  when  he  found  himself  thinking 
of  her,  if  not  speaking  to  her,  as  if  she  were  a  child.  Perhaps 
he  seemed  as  old  in  her  eyes  as  she  seemed  young  in  his. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  were  so  inconvenienced  last 
night,  sir,  as  to  be  locked  in.    -It  was  very  unfortunate." 


107  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

It  was  nothing,  he  returned.  He  had  had  a  very  good 
bed. 

*^  Oh,  yes  !  **  she  said  quickly,  "she  believed  there  were 
excellent  beds  at  the  coffee-house."  He  noticed  that  the 
coffee-house  was  quite  a  majestic  hotel  to  her,  and  that  she 
treasured  its  reputation. 

''  I  believe  it  is  very  expensive,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  **  but 
my  father  has  told  me  that  quite  beautiful  dinners  may  be  got 
there.     And  wine,"  she  added  timidly. 

^^  Were  you  ever  there  ?  " 

*'  Oh  no  !     Only  into  the  kitchen,  to  fetch  hot-water." 

To  think  of  growing  up  with  a  kind  of  awe  upon  one  as  to 
the  luxuries  of  that  superb  establishment,  the  Marshalsea 
Hotel ! 

"  I  asked  you  last  night,"  said  Clennam,  "  how  you  had 
become  acquainted  with  my  mother.  Did  you  ever  hear 
her  name  before  she  sent  for  you  ?  " 

'*  No,  sir." 

**  Do  you  think  your  father  ever  did  ? " 

"No,  sir." 

He  met  her  eyes  raised  to  his  with  so  much  wonder  in 
them  (she  was  scared  when  that  encounter  took  place,  and 
shrunk  away  again),  that  he  felt  it  necessary  to  say  : 

"  I  have  a  reason  for  asking,  which  I  can  not  very  well 
explain  ;  but  you  must,  on  no  account,  suppose  it  to  be  of  a 
nature  to  cause  you  the  least  alarm  or  anxiety.  Quite  the 
reverse.  And  you  think  that  at  no  time  of  your  father's  life 
was  my  name  of  Clennam  ever  familiar  to  him  ? " 

"  No,  sir." 

He  felt,  from  the  tone  in  which  she  spoke,  that  she  was 
glancing  up  at  him  with  those  parted  lips  ;  therefore  he 
looked  before  him,  rather  than  make  her  heart  beat  quicker 
still  by  embarrassing  her  afresh. 

Thus  they  emerged  upon  the  Iron  Bridge,  which  was  as 
quiet  after  the  roaring  streets,  as  though  it  had  been  open 
country.  The  wind  blew  roughly,  the  wet  squalls  came  rat- 
tling past  them,  skimming  the  pools  on  the  road  and  pave- 
ment, and  raining  them  down  into  the  river.  The  clouds 
raced  on  furiously  in  the  lead-colored  sky,  the  smoke  and 
mist  raced  after  them,  the  dark  tide  ran  fierce  and  strong  in 
the  same  direction.  Little  Dorrit  seemed  the  least,  the 
quietest  and  weakest  of  heaven's  creatures. 

"  Let  me  put  you  in  a  coach,"  said  Arthur  Clennam, 
very  nearly  adding,  ''  my  poor  child." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  103 

She  hurriedly  declined,  saying  that  wet  or  dry  made  little 
difference  with  her  ;  she  was  used  to  go  about  in  all  weathers. 
He  knew  it  to  be  so,  and  was  touched  with  more  pity  ;  think- 
ing of  the  slight  figure,  at  his  side,  making  its  nightly  way 
through  the  damp,  dark,  boisterous  streets,  to  such  a  place  of 
rest. 

*' You  spoke  so  feelingly  to  me  last  night,  sir,  and  I  found 
afterward  that  you  had  been  so  generous  to  my  father,  that 
I  could  not  resist  your  message,  if  it  was  only  to  thank  you; 
especially  as  I  wished  very  much  to  say  to  you — "  she  hesi- 
tated and  trembled,  and  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  but  did  not 
fall. 

''  To  say  to  me—? " 

**  That  I  hope  you  will  not  misunderstand  my  father. 
Don't  judge  him,  sir,  as  you  would  judge  others  outside  the 
gates.  He  has  been  there  so  long  !  I  never  saw  him  outside, 
but  I  can  understand  that  he  must  have  grown  different  in 
some  things  since." 

"  My  thoughts  will  never  be  unjust  or  harsh  toward  him, 
believe  me." 

"  Not,"  she  said,  with  a  prouder  air,  as  the  misgiving  evi- 
dently crept  upon  her  that  she  might  seem  to  be  abandoning 
him,  ^*  Not  that  he  was  any  thing  to  be  ashamed  of  for  him- 
self, or  that  I  have  any  thing  to  be  ashamed  of  for  him. 
He  only  requires  to  be  understood.  I  only  ask  for  him  that 
his  life  rnay  be  fairly  remembered.  All  that  he  said  was 
quite  true.  It  all  happened  just  as  he  related  it.  He  is 
very  much  respected.  Every  body  who  comes  in,  is  glad  to 
know  him.  He  is  more  courted  than  any  one  else.  He  is 
far  more  thought  of  than  the  marshal  is." 

If  ever  pride  were  innocent,  it  was  innocent  in  Little 
Dorrit  when  she  grew  boastful  of  her  father. 

"  It  is  often  said  that  his  manners  are  a  true  gentleman's, 
and  quite  a  study.  I  see  none  like  them  in  that  place,  but 
he  is  admitted  to  be  superior  to  all  the  rest.  This  is  quite 
as  much  why  they  make  him  presents,  as  because  they  know 
him  to  be  needy.  He  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  being  in  need, 
poor  love.  Who  could  be  in  prison  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
and  be  prosperous  !  " 

What  affection  in  her  words,  what  compassion  in  her 
repressed  tears,  what  a  great  soul  of  fidelity  within  her,  how 
true  the  light  that  shed  false  brightness  round  him  ! 

'^  If  I  have  found  it  best  to  conceal  where  my  home  is,  it 
is  not  because  I  am  ashamed  of  him.     God  forbid  !    Nor  am 


I04  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

I  so  much  ashamed  of  the  place  itself  as  might  be  supposed. 
People  are  not  bad  because  they  come  there.  I  have  known 
numbers  of  good,  persevering,  honest  people,  come  there 
through  misfortune.  They  are  almost  all  kind-hearted  to  one 
another.  And  it  would  be  ungrateful  indeed  in  me,  to  forget 
that  I  have  had  many  quiet,  comfortable  hours  there  ;  that  I 
had  an  excellent  friend  there  when  I  was  quite  a  baby,  who 
was  very  fond  of  me  ;  that  I  have  been  taught  there,  and  have 
worked  there,  and  have  slept  soundly  there.  I  think  it  would 
be  almost  cowardly  and  cruel  not  to  have  some  little  attach- 
ment for  it,  after  all  this." 

She  had  relieved  the  faithful  fullness  of  her  heart,  and 
modestly  said,  raising  her  eyes  appealingly  to  her  new  friend's, 
**  I  did  not  mean  to  say  so  much,  nor  have  I  ever  but  once 
spoken  about  this  before.  But  it  seems  to  set  it  more  right 
than  it  was  last  night.  I  said  I  wished  you  had  not  followed 
me,  sir.  I  don't  wish  it  so  much  now,  unless  you  should 
think — indeed,  I  don't  wish  it  at  all,  unless  I  should  have 
spoken  so  confusedly,  that — that  you  can  scarcely  understand 
me,  which  I  am  afraid  may  be  the  case." 

He  told  her  with  perfect  truth  that  it  was  not  the  case; 
and  putting  himself  between  her  and  the  sharp  wind  and 
rain,  sheltered  her  as  well  as  he  could. 

*^  I  feel  permitted  now,"  he  said,  ''  to  ask  you  a  little  more 
concerning  your  father.     Has  he  many  creditors  ?" 

"  Oh  !  a  great  number." 

"  I  mean  detaining  creditors,  who  keep  him  where  he 
is?" 

**  Oh  yes  !  a  great  number." 

"  Can  you  tell  me — I  can  get  the  information,  no  doubt, 
elsewhere,  if  you  can  not — who  is  the  most  influential  of 
them  ?" 

Dorrit  said,  after  considering  a  little,  that  she  used  to  hear 
long  ago  of  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  as  a  man  of  great  power.  He 
was  a  commissioner,  or  a  board,  or  a  trustee, ''  or  something." 
He  lived  in  Grosvenor  Square,  she  thought,  or  very  near  it. 
He  was  under  Government — high  in  the  circumlocution 
office.  She  appeared  to  have  acquired,  in  her  infancy,  some 
awful  impression  of  the  might  of  this  formidable  Mr.  Tite 
Barnacle,  of  Grosvenor  Square,  or  very  near  it,  and  the  cir- 
cumlocution office,  which  quite  crushed  her  when  she  men- 
tioned him. 

'*  It  can  do  no  harm,"  thought  Arthur,  **  if  I  see  this  Mr. 
Tite  Barnacle," 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  105 

The  thought  did  not  present  itself  so  quietly  but  that  her 
quickness  intercepted  it.  ^*  Ah  !"  said  Little  Dorrit,  shaking 
her  head  with  the  mild  despair  of  a  lifetime.  "  Many  people 
used  to  think  once  of  getting  my  poor  father  out,  but  you 
don't  know  how  hopeless  it  is." 

She  forgot  to  be  shy  at  the  moment,  in  honestly  warning 
him  away  from  the  sunken  wreck  he  had  a  dream  of  raising; 
and  looked  at  him  with  eyes  which  assuredly,  in  association 
with  her  patient  face,  her  fragile  figure,  her  spare  dress,  and 
the  wind  and  rain,  did  not  turn  him  from  his  purpose  of 
helping  her. 

"  Even  if  it  could  be  done,"  said  she — "  and  it  never  can 
be  done  now — where  could  father  live,  or  how  could  he  live? 
I  have  often  thought  if  such  a  change  could  come  it  might 
be  any  thing  but  a  service  to  him  now.  People  might  not 
think  so  well  of  him  outside  as  they  do  there.  He  might 
not  be  so  gently  dealt  with  outside  as  he  is  there.  He  might 
not  be  so  fit  himself  for  the  life  outside,  as  he  is  for  that." 

Here,  for  the  first  time,  she  could  not  restrain  her  tears 
from  falling;  and  the  little  thin  hands  he  had  watched  when 
they  were  so  busy,  trembled  as  they  clasped  each  other. 

*'  It  would  be  a  new  distress  to  him  even  to  know  that  I 
earn  a  little  money,  and  that  Fanny  earns  a  little  money. 
He  is  so  anxious  about  us,  you  see,  feeling  helplessly  shut 
up  there.     Such  a  good,  good  father  !" 

He  let  the  little  burst  of  feeling  go  by  before  he  spoke. 
It  was  soon  gone.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  think  of  her- 
self, or  to  trouble  any  one  with  her  emotions.  He  had  but 
glanced  away  at  the  piles  of  city  roofs-  and  chimneys  among 
which  the  smoke  was  rolling  heavily,  and  at  the  wilderness 
of  masts  on  the  river,  and  the  wilderness  of  steeples  on  the 
shore,  indistinctly  mixed  together  in  the  stormy  haze,  when 
she  was  again  as  quiet  as  if  she  had  been  plying  her  needle 
in  his  mother's  room. 

*'  You  would  be  glad  to  have  your  brother  set  at  liberty?" 

"  Oh  very,  very  glad,  sir  !" 

"  Well,  we  will  hope  for  him  at  least.  You  told  me  last 
night  of  a  friend  you  had  ?" 

His  name  was  Plornish,  Little  Dorrit  said. 

And  where  did  Plornish  live  ?  Plornish  lived  in  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard.  He  was  •"  only  a  plasterer,"  Little  Dorrit  said, 
as  a  caution  to  him  not  to  form  high  social  expectations  of 
Plornish.  He  lived  at  the  last  house  in  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard,  and  his  name  was  over  a  little  gateway. 


io6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Arthur  took  down  the  address  and  gave  her  his.  He  had 
now  done  all  he  sought  to  do  for  the  present,  except  that  he 
wished  to  leave  her  with  a  reliance  upon  him,  and  to  have 
something  like  a  promise  from  her  that  she  would  cherish  it. 

**  There  is  one  friend  !"  he  said,  putting  up  his  pocket- 
book.     "  As  I  take  you  back — you  are  going  back  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  going  straight  home." 

"  As  I  take  you  back,"  the  word  home  jarred  upon  him, 
"  let  me  ask  you  to  persuade  yourself  that  you  have  another 
friend.     I  make  no  professions,  and  say  no  more." 

^*  You  are  truly  kind  to  me,  sir.  I  am  sure  I  need  no 
more." 

They  walked  back  through  the  miserable  muddy  streets, 
and  among  the  poor,  mean  shops,  and  were  jostled  by  the 
crowds  of  dirty  hucksters  usual  to  a  poor  neighborhood. 
There  was  nothing,  by  the  short  way,  that  was  pleasant  to 
any  of  the  five  senses.  Yet  it  was  not  a  common  passage 
through  common  rain,  and  mire,  and  noise,  to  Clennam,  hav- 
ing this  little,  slender,  careful  creature  on  his  arm.  How 
young  she  seemed  to  him,  or  how  old  he  to  her  ;  or  what  a 
secret  either  to  the  other,  in  that  beginning  of  the  destined 
interweaving  of  their  stories,  matters  not  here.  He  thought 
of  her  having  been  born  and  bred  among  these  scenes,  and 
shrinking  through  them  now,  familiar,  yet  misplaced  ;  he 
thought  of  her  long  acquaintance  with  the  squalid  needs  of 
life,  and  of  her  innocence  ;  of  her  own  solicitude  for  others, 
and  her  few  years,  and  her  childish  aspect. 

They  were  come  into  the  High  Street,  where  the  prison 
stood,  when  a  voice  cried,  **  Little  mother,  little  mother  !  " 
Dorrit  stopping  and  looking  back,  an  excited  figure  of  a 
strange  kind  bounced  against  them  (still  crying  '*  little 
mother"),  fell  down  and  scattered  the  contents  of  a  large 
basket,  filled  with  potatoes,  in  the  mud. 

**  Oh,  Maggy,"  said  Dorrit,  *'  what  a  clumsy  child  you 
are  !  " 

Maggy  was  not  hurt,  but  picked  herself  up  immediately, 
and  then  began  to  pick  up  the  potatoes,  in  which  both  Dor- 
rit and  Arthur  Clennam  helped.  Maggy  picked  up  a  very  few 
potatoes,  and  a  great  quantity  of  mud  ;  but  they  were  all  re- 
covered, and  deposited  in  the  basket.  Maggy  then  smeared 
her  muddy  face  with  her  shawl,  and  presenting  it  to  Mr. 
Clennam  as  a  type  of  purity,  enabled  him  to  see  what  she 
was  like. 

She  was  about  eight-and-twenty,  with  large  bones,  large 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  107 

features,  large  feet  and  hands,  large  eyes  and  no  hair.  Her 
large  eyes  were  limpid  and  almost  colorless  ;  they  seemed 
to  be  very  little  affected  by  light,  and  to  stand  unnaturally 
still.  There  was  also  that  attentive  listening  expression  in 
her  face,  which  is  seen  in  the  faces  of  the- blind  ;  but  she 
was  not  blind,  having  one  tolerably  serviceable  eye.  Her 
face  was  not  exceedingly  ugly,  though  it  was  only  redeemed 
from  being  so  by  a  smile  ;  a  good-humored  smile,  and  pleas- 
ant in  itself,  but  rendered  pitiable  by  being  constantly  there. 
A  great  white  cap,  with  a  quantity  of  opaque  frilling  that 
was  always  flapping  about,  apologized  for  Maggy's  baldness, 
and  made  it  so  very  difficult  for  her  old  black  bonnet  to  retain 
its  place  upon  her  head,  that  it  held  on  round  her  neck  like 
a  gipsy's  baby.  A  commission  of  harberdashers  could  alone 
have  reported  what  the  rest  of  her  poor  dress  was  made  of  ; 
but  it  had  a  strong  general  reseml3lance  to  seaweed,  with 
here  and  there  a  gigantic  tea-leaf.  Her  shawl  looked  par- 
ticularly like  a  tea-leaf  after  long  infusion. 

Arthur  Clennam  looked  at  Dorrit,  with  the  expression  of 
one  saying,  *'  May  I  ask  who  this  is  ?  "  Dorrit,  whose  hand 
this  Maggy,  still  calling  her  little  mother,  had  begun  to  fon- 
dle, answered  in  words  (they  were  under  a  gate-way  into 
which  the  majority  of  the  potatoes  had  rolled), 

**  This  is  Maggy,  sir." 

'*  Maggy,  sir,"  echoed  the  personage  presented.  "  Little 
mother  !  " 

*'  She  is  the  grand-daughter — "  said  Dorrit. 

"  Grand-daughter,"  echoed  Maggy. 

"  Of  my  old  nurse,  who  has  been  dead  a  long  time. 
Maggy,  how  old  are  you  ?  " 

"  Ten,  mother,"  said  Maggy. 

"  You  can't  think  how  good  she  is,  sir,'*  said  Dorrit,  with 
infinite  tenderness. 

"  Good  she  is,"  echoed  Maggy,  transferring  the  pronoun  in 
a  most  expressive  way  from  herself  to  her  little  mother. 

"  Oh  how  clever,"  said  Dorrit.  *'  She  goes  on  errands  as 
well  as  any  one."  Maggy  laughed.  ^^  And  is  as  trustworthy 
as  the  Bank  of  England."  Maggy  laughed.  "  She  earns 
her  own  living  entirely.  Entirely  sir  !  "  said  Dorrit  in  a 
lower  and  triumphant  tone.     *'  Really  does  !  " 

"  What  is  her  history  ?  "  asked  Clennam. 

""  Think  of  that,  Maggy  ?  "  said  Dorrit,  taking  her  two  large 
hands  and  clasping  them  together.  *'  A  gentleman  from 
thousands  of  miles  away,  wanting  to  know  your  history  !  " 


io8  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

**  My  history  ?  "  cried  Maggy.     "  Little  mother." 

^^  She  means  me,"  said  Dorrit  rather  confused  ;  ^'  she  is 
very  much  attached  to  me.  Her  old  grandmother  was  not 
so  kind  to  her  as  she  should  have  been  ;  was  she,  Maggy  ?  " 

Maggy  shook  her  head,  made  a  drinking  vessel  of  her 
clenched  left  hand,  drank  out  of  it,  and  said,  "  Gin."  Then 
beat  an  imaginary  child,  and  said,  "  Broomhandles,  and 
pokers." 

"  When  Maggy  was  ten  years  old,"  said  Dorrit,  watching 
her  face  while  she  spoke,  "  she  had  a  bad  fever,  sir,  and  she 
has  never  grown  any  older  ever  since." 

"  Ten  years  old,"  said  Maggy,  nodding  her  head.  '^  But 
what  a  nice  hospital  !  So  comfortable,  wasn't  it  ?  Oh  so 
nice  it  was.     Such  a  Ev'nly  place  !  " 

''  She  had  never  been  at  peace  before,  sir,"  said  Dorrit, 
turning  toward  Arthur  for  an  instant  and  speaking  low,  ^'  and 
she  always  runs  off  upon  that." 

'^  Such  beds  there  is  there  !  "  cried  Maggy.  "  Such  lemon- 
ades !  Such  oranges  !  Such  d'licious  broth  and  wine  !  Such 
chicking  !     Oh,  ain't  it  a  delightful  place  to  go  and  stop  at !  " 

"  So  Maggy  stopped  there  as  long  as  she  could,"  said  Dor- 
rit, in  her  former  tone  of  telling  a  child's  story;  the  tone  de- 
signed for  Maggy's  ear,  "  and  at  last,  when  she  could  stop 
there  no  longer,  she  came  out.  Then,  because  she  was  never 
to  be  more  than  ten  years  old,  however  long  she  lived — " 

"  However  long  she  lived,"  echoed  Maggy. 

"And  because  she  was  very  weak  ;  indeed  was  so  weak 
that  when  she  began  to  laugh  she  couldn't  stop  herself — 
which  was  a  great  pity — " 

(Maggy  mighty  grave  of  a  sudden.) 

""  Her  grandmother  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  her,  and 
for  some  years  was  very  unkind  to  her  indeed.  At  length, 
in  course  of  time,  Maggy  began  to  take  pains  to  improve 
herself,  and  to  be  very  attentive  and  very  industrious  ;  and 
by  degrees  was  allowed  to  come  in  and  out  as  often  as  she 
liked,  and  got  enough  to  do  to  support  herself,  and  does 
support  herself.  And  that,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  clapping  the 
two  great  hands  together  again,  "  is  Maggy's  history,  as 
Maggy  knows  !  " 

Ah  !  But  Arthur  would  have  known  what  was  wanting  to 
its  completeness,  though  he  had  never  heard  the  words  little 
mother;  though  he  had  never  seen  the  fondling  of  the  small 
spare  hand;  though  he  had  had  no  sight  for  the  tears  now 
standing  in  the  colorless  eye,  though  he  had  had  no  hearing 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  209 

for  the  sob  that  checked  the  clumsy  laugh.  The  dirty  gate- 
way  with  the  wind  and  rain  whistling  through  it,  and  the  bas- 
ket of  muddy  potatoes  waiting  to  be  spilled  again  or  taken  up, 
never  seemed  the  common  hole  it  really  was,  when  he  looked 
back  to  it  by  these  lights.     Never,  never  ! 

They  were  very  near  the  end  of  their  walk,  and  they  now 
came  out  of  the  gate-way  to  finish  it.  Nothing  would  serve 
Maggy  but  that  they  must  stop  at  a  grocer's  window,  short 
of  their  destination,  for  her  to  show  her  learning.  She  could 
read  after  a  sort;  and  picked  out  the  fat  figures  in  the  tickets 
of  prices,  for  the  most  part  correctly.  She  also  stumbled,  with 
a  large  balance  of  success  against  her  failures,  through  various 
philanthropic  recommendations  to  try  our  mixture,  try  our 
family  black,  try  our  orange-flavored  pekoe,  challenging 
competition  at  the  head  of  flowery  teas;  and  various  cautions 
to  the  public  against  spurious  establishments  and  adulterated 
articles.  When  he  saw  how  pleasure  brought  a  rosy  tint  into 
Dorrit's  face  when  Maggy  made  a  hit,  he  felt  that  he  could 
have  stood  there  making  a  library  of  the  grocer's  window 
until  the  rain  and  wind  were  tired. 

The  court-yard  received  them  at  last,  and  there  he  said 
good-by  to  Little  Dorrit.  Little  as  she  had  always  looked, 
she  looked  less  than  ever  when  he  saw  her  going  into  the 
Marshalsea  lodge  passage,  the  little  mother  attended  by  her 
big  child. 

The  cage  door  opened,  and  when  the  small  bird,  reared  in 
captivity,  had  tamely  fluttered  in,  he  saw  it  shut  again  ;  and 
then  he  came  away. 


CHAPTER  X. 

CONTAINING    THE    WHOLE    SCIENCE    OF    GOVERNMENT. 

The  circumlocution  office  v/as  (as  every  body  knows  with- 
out being  told)  the  most  important  department  under  govern- 
ment. No  public  business  of  any  kind  could  possibly  be  done 
at  any  time,  without  the  acquiescence  of  the  circumlocution 
office.  Its  finger  was  in  the  largest  public  pie,  and  in  the 
smallest  public  tart.  It  was  equally  impossible  to  do  the 
plainest  right  and  to  undo  the  plainest  wrong,  vv^ithout  the 
express  authority  of  the  circumlocution  ofhce.  If  another 
gunpowder  plot  had  been  discovered  half  an  hour  before  the 
lighting  of  the  match,  nobody  would  have  been  justified  in 


no  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

saving  the  parliament  until  there  had  been  half  a  score  of 
boards,  half  a  bushel  of  minutes,  several  sacks  of  official 
memoranda,  and  a  family-vault  full  of  ungrammatical  cor- 
respondence, on  the  part  of  the  circumlocution  office. 

This  glorious  establishment  had  been  early  in  the  field, 
when  the  one  sublime  principle  involving  the  difficult  art  of 
governing  a  country,  was  first  distinctly  revealed  to  states- 
men. It  had  been  foremost  to  study  that  bright  revelation, 
and  to  carry  its  shining  influence  through  the  whole  of  the 
official  proceedings.  Whatever  was  required  to  be  done, 
the  circumlocution  office  was  beforehand  with  all  the  pub- 
lic  departments   in   the   art  of   perceiving — how    not    to 

DO  IT. 

Through  this  delicate  perception,  through  the  tact  with 
which  it  invariably  seized  it,  and  through  the  genius  with 
which  it  always  acted  on  it,  the  circumlocution  office  had 
risen  to  over-top  all  the  public  departments  ;  and  the  pub- 
lic condition  had  risen  to  be — what  it  was. 

It  is  true  that  how  not  to  do  it  was  the  great  study  and 
object  of  all  public  departments  and  professional  politicians 
all  round  the  circumlocution  office.  It  is  true  that  every 
new  premier  and  every  new  government,  coming  in  because 
they  had  upheld  a  certain  thing  as  necessary  to  be  done, 
were  no  sooner  come  in  than  they  applied  their  utmost 
faculties  to  discovering  how  not  to  do  it.  It  is  true  that  from 
the  moment  when  a  general  election  was  over,  every  re- 
turned man  who  had  been  raving  on  hustings  because  it 
hadn't  been  done,  and  who  had  been  asking  the  friends  of 
the  honorable  gentleman  in  the  opposite  interest  on  pain  of 
impeachment  to  tell  him  why  it  hadn't  been  done,  and  who 
had  been  asserting  that  it  must  be  done,  and  who  had  been 
pledging  himself  that  it  should  be  done,  began  to  devise, 
how  it  was  not  to  be  done.  It  is  true  that  the  debates  of 
both  houses  of  parliament  the  whole  session  through, 
uniformly  tended  to  the  protracted  deliberation,  how  not  to 
do  it.  It  is  true  that  the  royal  speech  at  the  opening  of  such 
session  virtually  said,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  you  have  a 
considerable  stroke  of  work  to  do,  and  you  will  please  to 
retire  to  your  respective  chambers,  and  discuss,  how  not  to  do 
it.  It  is  true  that  the  royal  speech,  at  the  close  of  such 
session,  virtually  said,  my  lords  and  gentlemen,  you  have 
through  several  laborious  months  been  considering  with 
great  loyalty  and  patriotism,  how  not  to  do  it,  and  you  have 
found  out ;  and  with  the  blessing  of  Providence  upon  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  in 

harvest  (natural,  not  political),  I  now  dismiss  you.     All  this 
was  true,  but  the  circumlocution  office  went  beyond  it. 

Because  the  circumlocution  office  went  on  mechanically, 
every  day,  keeping  this  wonderful,  all-sufficient  wheel  of 
statesmanship,  how  not  to  do  it,  in  motion.  Because  the  cir- 
cumlocution office  was  down  upon  any  ill-advised  public 
servant  who  was  going  to  do  it,  or  who  appeared  to  be  by 
any  surprising  acccident  in  remote  danger  of  doing  it,  with  a 
minute,  and  a  memorandum,  and  a  letter  of  instructions, 
that  extinguished  him.  It  was  this  spirit  of  natural  efficiency 
in  the  circumlocution  office  that  had  gradually  led  to  its 
having  something  to  do  with  every  thing.  Mechanics,  natural 
philosophers,  soldiers,  sailors,  petitioners,  memorialists, 
people  with  grievances,  people  who  wanted  to  prevent 
grievances,  people  who  wanted  to  redress  grievances, 
jobbing  people,  jobbed  people,  people  who  couldn't 
get  rewarded  for  merit,  and  people  who  couldn't  get 
punished  for  demerit,  were  all  indiscriminately  tucked 
up  under  the  foolscap  paper  of  the  circumlocution 
office. 

Numbers  of  people  were  lost  in  the  circumlocution  office. 
Unfortunates  with  wrongs,  or  with  projects  for  the  general 
welfare  (and  they  had  better  have  had  wrongs  at  first,  than 
have  taken  that  bitter  English  recipe  for  certainly  getting 
them),  who  in  slow  lapse  of  time  and  agony  had  passed 
safely  through  other  public  departments  ;  who,  according  to 
rule,  had  been  bullied  in  this,  over-reached  by  that,  and 
evaded  by  the  other  ;  got  referred  at  last  to  the  circumlo- 
cution office,  and  never  reappeared  in  the  light  of  day. 
Boards  sat  upon  them,  secretaries  minuted  upon  them,  com- 
missioners gabbled  about  them,  clerks  registered,  entered, 
checked,  and  ticked  them  off,  and  they  melted  away.  In 
short,  all  the  business  of  the  country  went  through  the  cir- 
cumlocution office,  except  the  business  that  never  came 
out  of  it ;  and  its  nam^  was  legion. 

Sometimes,  angry  spirits  attacked  the  circumlocution 
office.  Sometimes,  parliamentary  question  were  asked  about 
it,  and  even  parliamentary  motions  made  or  threatened  about 
it,  by  demagogues  so  low  and  ignorant  as  to  hold  that  the 
real  recipe  of  government  was,  how  to  do  it.  Then  would 
the  noble  lord,  or  right  honorable  gentleman,  in  whose  depart- 
ment it  was  to  defend  the  circumlocution  office,put  an  orange 
in  his  pocket,  and  make  a  regular  field-day  of  the  occasion 
Then  would  he  come  down  to  that  house  with  a  slap  upon  thq 


112   '  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

table,  and  meet  the  honorable  gentleman  foot  to  foot.  Then 
would  he  be  there  to  tell  that  honorable  gentleman  that  the 
circumlocution  office  not  only  was  blameless  in  this  matter, 
but  was  commendable  in  this  matter,  was  extollable  to  the 
skies  in  this  matter.  Then  would  he  be  there  to  tell  that 
honorable  gentleman,  that,  although  the  circumlocution 
office  was  invariably  right,  and  wholly  right,  it  never  was  so 
right  as  in  this  matter.  Then  would  he  be  there  to  tell  that 
honorable  gentleman  that  it  would  have  been  more  to  his 
honor,  more  to  his  credit,  more  tc  his  good  taste,  more  to 
his  good  sense,  more  to  half  the  dictionary  of  common- 
places, if  he  had  left  the  circumlocution  office  alone,  and 
never  approached  this  matter.  Then  would  he  keep  one 
eye  upon  a  coach  or  crammer  from  the  circumlocution 
office  sitting  below  the  bar,  and  smash  the  honorable  gentle- 
man with  the  circumlocution  office  account  of  this  matter. 
And  although  one  of  two  things  always  happened  ;  namely, 
either  that  the  circumlocution  office  had  nothing  to  say  and 
said  it,  or  that  it  had  something  to  say  of  which  the  noble 
lord,  or  right  honorable  gentleman,  blundered  one  half  and 
forgot  the  other  ;  the  circumlocution  office  was  always  voted 
immaculate  by  an  accommodating  majority. 

Such  a  nursery  of  statesmen  had  the  department  become 
in  virtue  of  a  long  career  of  this  nature,  that  several  solemn 
lords  had  attained  the  reputation  of  being  quite  unearthly 
prodigies  of  business,  solely  from  having  practiced,  how  not 
to  do  it,  at  the  head  of  the  circumlocution  office.  As  to 
the  minor  priests  and  acolytes  of  that  temple,  the  result  of 
all  this  was  that  they  stood  divided  into  two  classes,  and, 
down  to  the  junior  messenger,  either  believed  in  the  circum- 
locution office  as  a  heaven-born  institution,  that  had  an 
absolute  right  to  do  whatever  it  liked  ;  or  took  refuge  in 
total  infidelity,  and  considered  it  a  flagrant  nuisance. 

The  Barnacle  family  had  for  some  time  helped  to  admin- 
ister the  circumlocution  office.  The  Tite  Barnacle  branch, 
indeed,  considered  themselves  in  a  general  way  as  having 
vested  rights  in  that  direction,  and  took  it  ill  if  any  other 
family  had  much  to  say  to  it.  \  The  Barnacles  were  a  very 
high  family,  and  a  very  large  family.  They  were  dispersed 
all  over  the  public  offices,  and  held  all  sorts  of  public  places. 
.  Either  the  nation  was  under  a  load  of  obligation  to  the 
Barnacles,  or  the  Barnacles  were  under  a  load  of  obligation  to 
(he  nation.  It  war^  not  quite  unanimously  settled  which  ;  the 
Barnacles  having  their  opinion,  the  nation  theirs.- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  113 

The  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  who  at  the  period  now  in  question 
usually  coached  or  crammed  the  statesman  at  the  head  of  the 
circumlocution  office,  when  that  noble  or  right  honorable 
individual  sat  a  little  uneasily  in  his  saddle,  by  reason  of 
some  vagabond  making  a  tilt  at  him  in  a  newspaper,  was 
more  flush  of  blood  than  money.  As  a  Barnacle  he  had 
his  place,  which  was  a  snug  thing  enough  ;  and  as  a  Bar- 
nacle he  had  of  course  put  in  his  son  Barnacle  Junior,  in 
the  office.  But  he  had  inter-married  with  a  branch  of  the 
Stiltstalkings,  who  were  also  better  endowed  in  a  sanguine- 
ous point  of  view  than  with  real  or  personal  property,  and 
of  this  marriage  there  had  been  issue,  Barnacle  Junior,  and 
three  young  ladies.  What  with  the  patrician  requirements 
of  Barnacle  Junior,  the  three  young  ladies,  Mrs.  Tite  Bar- 
nacle nee  Stiltstalking,  and  himself,  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  found 
the  intervals  between  quarter  day  and  quarter  day  rather 
longer  than  he  could  have  desired  ;  a  circumstance  which 
he  always  attributed  to  the  country's  parsimony. 

For  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle,  Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  made  his 
fifth  inquiry  one  day  at  the  circumlocution  office  ;  ha^ang 
on  previous  occasions  awaited  that  gentleman  successively  in  a 
hall,  a  glass  case,  a  waiting-room,  and  a  fire-proof  passage 
where  the  department  seemed  to  keep  its  wind.  On  this  occas- 
ion Mr.  Barnacle  was  not  engaged,  as  he  had  been  before,  with 
the  noble  prodigy  at  the  head  of  the  department  ;  but 
was  absent.  Barnacle  Junior,  however,  was  announced  as  a 
lesser  star,  yet  visible  above  the  office  horizon. 

With  Barnacle  Junior,  he  signified  his  desire  to  confer  ; 
and  found  that  young  gentleman  singeing  the  calves  of 
his  legs  at  the  parental  fire,  and  supporting  his  spine  against 
the  mantel-shelf.  It  was  a  comfortable  room,  handsomely 
furnished  in  the  higher  official  manner  ;  and  presenting 
stately  suggestions  of  the  absent  Barnacle,  in  the  thick  car- 
pet, the  leather-covered  desk  to  sit  at,  the  leather-covered 
desk  to  stand  at,  the  formidable  easy-chair  and  hearth-rug, 
interposed  screen,  the  torn-up  papers,  the  dispatch-boxes 
with  little  labels  sticking  out  of  them,  like  medicine  bottles 
or  dead  game,  the  pervading  smell  of  leather  and  mahog- 
any, and  a  general  bamboozling  air  of  how  not  to  do  it. 

The  present  Barnacle,  holding  Mr.  Clennam's  card  in  his 
hand,  had  a  youthful  aspect,  and  the  fluffiest  little  whisker, 
perhaps,  that  ever  was  seen.  Such  a  downy  tip  was  on  his 
callow  chin,  that  he  seemed  half-fledged  like  a  young  bird  ; 
and  a  compassionate   observer  might  have  urged,  that  if  he 


114  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

had  not  singed  the  calves  of  his  legs,  he  would  have  died  of 
cold.  He  had  a  superior  eye-glass  dangling  round  his  neck, 
but  unfortunately  had  such  flat  orbits  to  his  eyes,  and  such 
limp  little  eyelids,  that  it  wouldn't  stick  in  when  he  put  it 
up,  but  kept  tumbling  out  against  his  waistcoat  buttons  with 
a  click  that  discomposed  him  very  much. 

*"  Oh,  I  say.  Look  here  !  My  father  s  not  in  the  way, 
and  won't  be  in  the  way  to-day,"  said  Barnacle  Junior.  "  Is 
this  any  thing  that  I  can  do  ?  " 

(Click  !  Eye-glass  down.  Barnacle  Junior  quite  fright- 
ened and  feeling  all  round  himself,  but  not  able  to  find  it.) 

**  You  .are  very  good,"  said  Arthur  Clennam.  "  I  wish 
however  to  see  Mr.  Barnacle." 

"  But  I  say.  Look  here  !  You  haven't  got  any  appoint- 
ment, you  know,"  said  Barnacle  Junior. 

(By  this  time  he  had  found  the  eye-glass,  and  put  it  up 
again.) 

"  No,"  said  Arthur  Clennam.  "  That  is  what  I  wish  to 
have." 

*'  But  I  say.  Look  here  !  Is  this  public  business  ? " 
asked  Barnacle  Junior. 

(Click  !  Eye-glass  down  again.  Barnacle  Junior  in  that 
state  of  search  after  it,  that  Mr.  Clennam  felt  it  useless  to 
reply  at  present.)  "  Is  it,"  said  Barnacle  Junior,  taking  heed 
of  his  visitor's  brown  face,  any  thing  about — tonnage — or 
that  sort  of  thing  ?  " 

(Pausing  for  a  reply,  he  opened  his  right  eye  with  his 
hand,  and  stuck  his  glass  in  it,  in  that  inflammatory  manner 
that  his  eye  began  watering  dreadfully.) 

"  No,"  said  Arthur,  "  it  is  nothing  about  tonnage." 

**  Then  look  here.     Is  it  private  business  ?'* 

*^  I  really  am  not  sure.     It  relates  to  a  Mr.  Dorrit." 

"  Look  here,  I  tell  you  what  !  You  had  better  call  at  our 
house,  if  you  are  going  that  way.  Twenty-four,  Mews  Street, 
Grosvenor  Square.  My  father's  got  a  slight  touch  of  the 
gout,  and  is  kept  at  home  by  it." 

(The  misguided  young  Barnacle  evidently  going  blind  on 
his  eye-glass  side,  but  ashamed  to  make  any  further  alter- 
ation in  his  painful  arrangements.) 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  call  there  now.  Good-morning." 
Young  Barnacle  seemed  discomfited  at  this,  as  not  having 
at  all  expected  him  to  go. 

**  You  are  quite  sure,"  said  Barnacle  Junior,  calling  after 
him  when  he  got  to  the   door,   unwilling  to  relinquish  tb^ 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  115 

bright  business  idea  he  had  conceived  ;  "  that  it's  nothing 
about  tonnage  ?  " 

^'  Quite  sure.'* 

With  which  assurance,  and  rather  wondering  what  might 
have  taken  place  if  it  had  been  any  thing  about  tonnage,  Mr. 
Ciennam  withdrew  to  pursue  his  inquiries. 

Mews  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  was  not  absolutely  Gros- 
venor  Square  itself,  but  it  was  very  near  it.  It  was  a  hide- 
ous little  street  of  dead  wall,  stables,  and  dung-hills,  with 
lofts  over  coach-houses  inhabited  by  coachmen's  families, 
who  had  a  passion  for  drying  clothes,  and  decorating  their 
window-sills  with  miniature  turnpike-gates.  The  principal 
chimney-sweep  of  that  fashionable  quarter  lived  at  the  blind 
end  of  Mews  Street ;  and  the  same  corner  contained  an 
establishment  much  frequented  about  early  morning  and 
twilight,  for  the  purchase  of  wine-bottles  and   kitchen-stuff. 

Punch's  shows  used  to  lean  against  the  dead  wall  in  Mews 
Street,  while  their  proprietors  were  dining  elsewhere  ;  and 
the  dogs  of  the  neighborhood  made  appointments  to  meet 
in  the  same  locality.  Yet  there  were  two  or  three  small  air- 
less houses  at  the  entrance  end  of  Mev/s  Street,  which  went 
at  enormous  rents  on  account  of  their  being  abject  hangers- 
on  to  a  fashionable  situation  ;  and  whenever  one  of  these 
fearful  little  coops  was  to  be  let  (which  seldom  happened, 
for  they  were  in  great  request),  the  house  agent  advertised  it 
as  a  gentlemanly  residence  in  the  most  aristocratic  part  of 
town,  inhabited  solely  by  the  elite  of  the  beau  monde. 

If  a  gentlemanly  residence  coming  strictly  wdthin  this 
narrow  margin,  had  not  been  essential  to  the  blood  of  the 
Barnacles,  this  particular  branch  would  have  had  a  pretty 
wide  selection  among  let  us  say  ten  thousand  houses,  offering 
fifty  times  the  accommodations  for  a  third  of  the  money. 
As  it  was,  Mr.  Barnacle,  finding  his  gentlemanly  residence 
extremely  inconvenient,  and  extremely  dear,  always  laid  it, 
as  a  public  servant,  at  the  door  of  the  country,  and  adduced 
it  as  another  instance  of  the  country's  parsimony. 

Arthur  Ciennam  came  to  a  squeezed  house,  with  a  ram- 
shackle bowed  front,  little  dingy  windows,  and  a  little  dark 
area  like  a  damp  waistcoat-pocket,  which  he  found  to  be 
number  twenty-four,  Mews  Street,  Grosvenor  Square.  To  the 
sense  of  smell,  the  house  was  like  a  sort  of  bottle  filled  with 
a  strong  distillation  of  mews;  and  when  the  footman  opened 
the  door,  he  seemed  to  take  the  stopper  out. 

The  footman  was  to  the  Grosvenor  Square  footman,  what 


ii6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

the  house  was  to  the  Grosvenor  Square  houses.  Admirable 
in  his  way,  his  way  was  a  back  and  a  by-way.  His  gor- 
geousness  was  not  unmixed  with  dirt;  and  both  in  complex- 
ion and  consistency,  he  had  suffered*' from  the  closeness 
of  his  pantry.  A  sallow  flabbiness  was  upon  him,  when  he 
took  the  stopper  out,  and  presented  the  bottle  to  Mr.  Clen- 
nam's  nose. 

"  Be  so  good  as  to  give  that  card  to  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle, 
and  to  say  that  I  have  just  now  seen  the  younger  Mr.  Bar- 
nacle who  recommended  me  to  call  here." 

The  footman  who  had  as  many  large  buttons  with  the 
Barnacle  crest  upon  them,  on  the  flaps  of  his  pockets,  as  if  he 
were  the  family  strong  box,  and  carried  the  plate  and  jewels 
about  with  him  buttoned  up)  pond'ered  over  the  card  a  little; 
then  said,  "Walk  in."  It  required  some  judgment  to  do  it 
without  butting  the  inner  hall-door  open,  and  in  the  conse- 
quent mental  confusion  and  physical  darkness  slipping  down 
the  kitchen  stairs.  The  visitor,  however,  brought  himself  up 
safely  on  the  door-mat. 

Still  the  footman  said  **  Walk  in,'*  so  the  visitor  followed 
him.  At  the  inner  hall-door,  another  bottle  seemed  to  be 
presented,  and  another  stopper  taken  out.  This  second  vial 
appeared  to  be  filled  with  concentrated  provisions;  and 
extract  of  sink  from  the  pantry.  After  a  skirmish  in  the 
narrow  passage,  occasioned  by  the  footman's  opening  the 
door  of  the  dismal  dining-roon  with  confidence,  finding 
some  one  there  with  consternation,  and  backing  on  the 
visitor  with  disorder,  the  visitor  was  shut  up,  pending  his 
announcement,  in  a  close  back  parlor.  There  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  refreshing  himself  with  both  the  bottles  at 
once,  looking  out  at  a  low  blinding  back  wall  three  feet  off, 
and  speculating  on  the  number  of  Barnacle  families  within 
the  bills  of  mortality  who  lived  in  such  hutches  of  their  own 
free  flunkey  choice. 

Mr.  Barnacle  would  see  him.  Would  he  walk  up-stairs  ? 
He  would,  and  he  did;  and  in  the  drawing-room,  with  his  leg 
on  a  rest,  he  found  Mr.  Barnacle  himself,  the  express  image 
and  presentment  of  how  not  to  do  it. 

Mr.  Barnacle  dated  from  a  better  time,  when  the  country 
was  not  so  parsimonious,  and  the  circumlocution  office  was 
not  so  badgered..  He  wound  and  wound  folds  of  white  cra- 
vat round  his  neck,  as  he  wound  and  wound  folds  of  tape 
and  paper  round  the  neck  of  th"e  country.  Llis  wristbands 
and  collar  were  oppressive,  his  voice  and  manner  were  op- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  117 

pressive.  He  had  a  large  watch-chain  and  a  bunch  of  seals, 
a  coat  buttoned  up  to  inconvenience,  a  waistcoat  buttoned 
up  to  inconvenience,  an  unwrinkled  pair  of  trowsers,  a  stiff 
pair  of  boots.  He  was  altogether  splendid,  massive,  over- 
powering, and  impracticable.  He  seemed  to  have  been 
sitting  for  his  portrait  to  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  all  the  days 
of  his  life. 

"  Mr.  Clennam  ?  "  said  Mr.  Barnacle.     *'  Be  seated." 

Mr.  Clennam  became  seated. 

"  You  have  called  on  me,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Barnacle, 
**  at  the  circumlocution—"  giving  the  air  of  a  word  of  about 
five-and-twenty  syllables,  ^*  office." 

"  I  have  taken  that  liberty." 

Mr.  Barnacle  solemnly  bent  his  head  as  who  should  say, 
"  I  do  not  deny  that  it  is  a  liberty;  proceed  to  take  another 
liberty,  and  let  me  know  your  business." 

"  Allow  me  to  observe  that  I  have  been  some  years  in 
China,  am  quite  a  stranger  at  home,  and  have  no  personal 
motive  or  interest  in  the  inquiry  I  am  about  to  make." 

Mr.  Barnacle  tapped  his  fingers  on  the  table,  and,  as  if 
he  were  now  sitting  for  his  portrait  to  a  new  and  strange 
artist,  appeared  to  say  to  his  visitor,  ^'  If  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  take  me  with  my  present  lofty  expression,  I  shall 
feel  obliged." 

^'  I  have  found  a  debtor  in  the  Marshalsea  prison  of  the 
name  of  Dorrit,  who  has  been  there  many  years.  I  wish  to 
investigate  his  confused  affairs,  so  far  as  to  ascertain  whether 
it  may  not  be  possible,  after  this  lapse  of  time,  to  ameli- 
orate his  unhappy  condition.  The  name  of  Mr.  Tite  Barna- 
cle has  been  mentioned  to  me  as  representing  some  highly 
influential  interest  among  his  creditors.  Am  I  correctly 
informed  ?  " 

It  being  one  of  the  principles  of  the  circumlocution  office 
never,  on  any  account  whatever,  to  give  a  straightforward 
answer,  Mr.  Barnacle  said,  *'  Possibly." 

'*  On  behalf  of  the  Crown,  may  I  ask,  or  as  a  private  indi- 
vidual ?" 

'^  The  circumlocution  department,  sir,"  Mr.  Barnacle  re- 
plied, *^  may  have  possibly  recommended — possibly — I  can 
not  say — that  some  public  claim  against  the  insolvent  estate 
of  a  firm  or  copartnership  to  which  this  person  may  have  be- 
longed, should  be  enforced.  The  question  may  have  been,  in 
the  course  of  official  business,  referred  to  the  circumlocution 
department  for  its  consideration.   The  department  may  have 


ii8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

either  originated,  or  confirmed,  a  minute  making  that  recom- 
mendation." 

^'  I  assume  this  to  be  the  case,  then." 

*^  The  circumlocution  department,"  said  Mr.  Barnacle, 
"is  not  responsible  for  any  gentleman's  assumptions." 

"  May  I  inquire  how  I  can  obtain  official  information  as 
to  the  real  state  of  the  case  ?  " 

"  It  is  competent,"  said  Mr.  Barnacle,  ''to  any  member 
of  the — public,"  mentioning  that  obscure  body  with  reluc- 
tance, as  his  natural  enemy,  "  to  memorialize  the  circumlo- 
cution department.  Such  formalities  as  are  required  to  be 
observed  in  so  doing,  may  be  known  on  application  to  the 
proper  branch  of  that  department." 

''  Which  is  the  proper  branch  ? " 

"  I  must  refer  you,"  returned  Mr.  Barnacle,  ringing  the 
bell,  "  to  the  department  itself  for  a  formal  answer  to  that 
inquiry." 

*'  Excuse  my  mentioning — " 

"  The  department  is  accessible  to  the — public,"  Mr.  Bar- 
nacle was  always  checked  a  little  by  that  word  of  impertinent 
signification,  '^  if  the — public  approaches  it  according  to  the 
official  forms  ;  if  the — public  does  not  approach  it  according 
to  the  official  forms,  the — public  has  itself  to  blame." 

Mr.  Barnacle  made  him  a  severe  bow,  as  a  wounded  man 
of  family,  a  wounded  man  of  place,  and  a  wounded  man  of  a 
gentlemanly  residence,  all  rolled  into  one  ;  and  he  made  Mr. 
Barnacle  a  bow,  and  was  shut  out  into  Mews  Street  by  the 
flabby  footman. 

Having  got  to  this  pass,  he  resolved  as  an  exercise  in  per- 
severance, to  betake  himself  again  to  the  circumlocution 
office,  and  try  what  satisfaction  he  could  get  there.  So  he 
went  back  to  the  circumlocution  office,  and  once  more  sent 
up  his  card  to  Barnacle  Junior  by  a  messenger  who  took  it 
very  ill  indeed  that  he  should  comeback  again,  and  who  was 
eating  mashed  potatoes  and  gravy  behind  a  partition  by  the 
hall  fire. 

He  was  re-admitted  to  the  presense  of  Barnacle  Junior, 
and  found  that  young  gentleman  singeing  his  knees  now,  and 
gaping  his  weary  way  on  to  four  o'clock. 

"  I  say.  Look  here.  You  stick  to  us  in  a  devil  of  a  man- 
ner," said  Barnacle  Junior,  looking  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  want  to  know — " 

**  Look  here.  Upon  my  soul  you  mustn't  come  into  the 
place  saying  you  want  to  know,  you  know,"   remonstrated 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  119 

Barnacle    Junior,    turning  about  and  putting    up  the   eye* 
glass. 

*'  I  want  to  know,"  said  Arthur  Clennam,  who  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  persistence  in  one  short  form  of  words,  ''  the 
precise  nature  of  the  claim  of  the  Crown  against  a  prisoner 
for  debt,  named  Dofrit." 

"  I  say.  Look  here.  You  really  are  going  it  at  a  great 
pace,  you  know.  Egad,  you  haven't  got  an  appointment," 
said  Barnacle  Junior,  as  if  the  thing  were  growing  serious. 

"  I  want  to  know,"  said  Arthur.     And  repeated  his  case. 

Barnacle  Junior  stared  at  him  until  his  eye-glass  fell  out, 
and  then  put  it  in  again  and  stared  at  him  until  it  fell  out 
again.  "  You  have  no  right  to  come  this  sort  of  move,"  he 
then  observed  with  the  greatest  weakness.  ^*  Look  here. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  You  told  me  you  didn't  know  whether 
it  was  public  business  or  not." 

"  I  have  now  ascertained  that  it  is  public  business,"  re- 
turned the  suitor,  *^and  I  want  to  know" — and  again  re- 
peated his  monotonous  inquiry. 

Its  effect  upon  young'  Barnacle  was  to  make  him  repeat 
in  a  defenseless  way,  ^'  Look  here  !  Upon  my  soul  you 
mustn't  come  into  the  place,  saying  you  want  to  know,  you 
know  !  "  The  effect  of  that  upon  Arthur  Clennam  was  to  make 
him  repeat  his  inquiry  in  exactly  the  same  words  and  tone  as 
before.  The  effect  of  that  upon  young  Barnacle  was  to  make 
him  a  wonderful  spectacle  of  failure  and  helplessness. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  what.  Look  here.  You  had  better  try 
the  secretarial  department,"  he  said  at  last,  sidling  to  the 
bell  and  ringing  it.  "  Jenkinson,"  to  the  mashed  potatoes 
messenger,  "  Mr.  Wobbler  !  " 

Arthur  Clennam,  who  now  felt  that  he  had  devoted  him- 
self to  the  storming  of  the  circumlocution  office,  and  must 
go  through  with  it,  accompanied  the  messenger  to  another 
floor  of  the  building,  where  that  functionary  pointed  out  Mr. 
Wobbler's  room.  He  entered  that  apartment,  and  found  two 
gentlemen  sitting  face  to  face  at  a  large  and  easy  desk,  one 
of  whom  was  polishing  a  gun-barrel  on  his  pocket  handker- 
chief, while  the  other  was  spreading  marmalade  on  bread 
with  a  paper-knife. 

*'  Mr.  Wobbler  ? "  inquired  the  suitor. 

Both  gentlemen  glanced  at  him,  and  seemed  surprised  at 
b.is  assurance. 

*^  So  he  went,"  said  the  gentleman  with  the  gun-barrel, 
who  was  an  extremely  deliberate  speaker,  ^'  down  to  his 
cousin's  place,  and  took  the  dog  with  him  by  rail.     Inestim- 


120  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

able  dog.  Flew  at  the  porter  fellow  v/hen  he  was  put  into 
the  dog  box,  and  flew  at  the  guard  when  he  was  taken  out. 
He  got  half  a  dozen  fellows  into  a  barn,  and  a  good  supply, 
of  rats,  and  timed  the  dog.  Finding  the  dog  able  to  do  it 
immensely,  made  the  match,  and  heavily  backed  the  dog. 
When  the  match  came  off,  some  devil  of  a  fellow  was 
bought  over,  sir,  dog  was  made  drunk,  dog's  master  was 
cleaned  out,*' 
-     "  Mr.  Wobbler  ?  "  inquired  the  suitor. 

The  gentleman  who  was  spreading  the  marmalade 
returned,  without  looking  up  from  that  occupation,  "  What 
did  he  call  the  dog  ? " 

"  Called  him  Lovely,"  said  the  other  gentleman.  "  Said 
the  dog  was  the  perfect  picture  of  the  old  aunt  from  whom 
he  has  expectations.  Found  him  particularly  like  her  when 
hocussed." 

''  Mr.  Wobbler  ?  "  said  the  suitor. 

Both  gentlemen  laughed  for  some  time.  The  gentleman 
with  the  gun-barrel,  considering  it  on  inspection  in  a  satis- 
factory state,  referred  it  to  the  other;  receiving  confirmation 
of  his  views,  he  fitted  it  into  its  place  in  the  case  before  him, 
and  took  out  the  stock  and  polished  that,  softly  whistling. 

"  Mr.  Wobbler  ?  "  said  the  suitor. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  then  said  Mr.  Wobbler,  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"  I  want  to  know — "  and  Arthur  Clennam  again  mechanic- 
ally set  forth  what  he  wanted  to  know. 

"  Can't  inform  you,"  observed  Mr.  Wobbler,  apparently  to 
his  lunch.  "  Never  heard  of  it.  Nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
it.  Better  try  Mr.  Clive,  second  door  on  the  left  in  the  next 
passage." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  give  me  the  same  answer." 

"  Very  likely.  Don't  know  any  thing  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Wobbler. 

The  suitor  turned  away,  and  had  left  the  room,  when  the 
gentleman  with  the  gun  called  out,  "  Mister  !     Hallo  !  " 

He  looked  in  again. 

"  Shut  the  door  after  you.  You're  letting  in  a  devil  of  a 
draught  here  !  " 

A  few  steps  brought  him  to  the  second  door  on  the  left  in 
the  next  passage.  In  that  room  he  found  three  gentlemen; 
number  one  doing  nothing  particular,  number  two  doing 
nothing  particular,  number  three  doing  nothing  particular. 
They  seemed,  however,  to  be  more   directly  concerned  than 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  121 

the  others  had  been  in  the  effective  execution  of  the  great 
principle  of  the  office,  as  there  was  an  awful  inner  apartment 
with  a  double  door,  in  which  the  circumlocution  sages 
appeared  to  be  assembled  in  council,  and  out  of  which  there 
was  an  imposing  coming  of  papers,  and  into  which  there 
was  an  imposing  going  of  papers,  almost  constantly; 
wherein  another  gentleman,  number  four,  was  the  active 
instrument. 

^^  I  want  to  know,"  said  Arthur  Clennam, — and  again 
stated  his  case  in  the  same  barrel-organ  way.  As  number 
one  referred  him  to  number  two,  and  as  number  two  referred 
him  to  number  three,  he  had  occasion  to  state  it  three  times 
before  they  all  referred  him  to  number  four.  To  whom  he 
stated  it  again. 

Number  four  was  a  vivacious,  well-looking,  well-dressed, 
agreeable  young  fellow — he  was  a  Barnacle,  but  on  the  more 
sprightly  side  of  the  family — and  he  said  in  an  easy  way, 
*'  Oh  !  you  had  better  not  bother  yourself  about  it,  I 
think." 

"  Not  bother  myself  about  it  ? " 

"  No  !     I  recommend  you  not  to  bother  yourself  about  it." 

This  was  such  a  new  point  of  view  that  Arthur  Clennam 
found  himself  at  a  loss  how  to  receive  it. 

"  You  can  if  you  like.  I  can  give  you  plenty  of  forms  to 
fill  up.  Lots  of  'em  here.  You  can  have  a  dozen  if  you 
like.     But  you'll  never  go  on  with  it,"  said  number  four. 

"Would  it  be  such  hopeless  work?  Excuse  me;  I  am  a 
stranger  in  England." 

"  /  don't  say  it  would  be  hopeless,"  returned  number  four, 
with  a  frank  smile.  "  I  don't  express  an  opinion  about  that; 
I  only  express  an  opinion  about  you.  /  don't  think  you'd 
go  on  with  it.  However,  of  course,  you  can  do  ^s  you  like. 
I  suppose  there  was  a  failure  in  the  performance  of  a  con- 
tract, or  something  of  that  kind,  was  there  ? " 

"  I  really  don't  know." 

"Well!  That  you  can  find  out.  Then  you'll  find  out 
what  department  the  contract  was  in,  and  then  you'll  find 
out  all  about  it  there." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.     How  shall  I  find  out  ?  " 

"Why,  you'll — you'll  ask  till  they  tell  you.  Then  you'll 
memorialize  that  department  (according  to  regular  forms 
which  you'll  find  out)  for  leave  to  memorialize  this  depart- 
ment. If  you  get  it  (which  you  may  after  a  time),  that 
memorial  must  be  entered  in  that  department,  sent  to  be 


122  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

registered  in  this  department,  sent  back  to  be  signed  by  that 
department,  sent  back  to  be  countersigned  by  this  depart- 
ment, and  then  it  will  begin  to  be  regularly  before  that  de- 
partment. You'll  find  out  when  the  business  passes  through 
each  of  these  stages,  by  asking  at  both  departments  till  they 
tell  you." 

''  But  surely  this  is  not  the  way  to  do  the  business,"  Ar- 
thur Clennam  could  not  help  saying. 

This  airy  young  Barnacle  was  quite  entertained  by  his 
simplicity  in  supposing  for  a  moment  that  it  was.  This  light 
in  hand  young  Barnacle  knew  perfectly  that  it  was  not.  This 
touch-and-go  young  Barnacle  had  *'  got  up  "  the  department 
in  a  private  secretaryship,  that  he  might  be  ready  for  any 
little  bit  of  fat  that  came  to  hand  ;  and  he  fully  understood 
the  department  to  be  a  politico-diplomatico  hocus  pocus 
piece  of  machinery,  for  the  assistance  of  the  nobs  in  keeping 
off  the  snobs.  This  dashing  young  Barnacle,  in  a  word,  was 
likely  to  become  a  statesman,  and  to  make  a  figure. 

''  When  the  business  is  regularly  before  that  department, 
whatever  it  is,"  pursued  this  bright  young  Barnacle,  "  then 
you  can  watch  it  from  time  to  time  through  that  depart- 
ment. When  it  comes  regularly  before  this  department, 
then  you  must  watch  it  from  time  to  time  through  this  de- 
partment. We  shall  have  to  refer  it  right  and  left  ;  and 
when  we  refer  it  anywhere,  then  you'll  have  to  look  it  up. 
When  it  comes  back  to  us  at  any  time,  then  you  had  better  look 
us  up.  When  it  sticks  anywhere,  you'll  have  to  try  to  give 
it  a  jog.  When  you  write  to  another  department  about  it, 
and  then  to  this  department  about  it,  and  don't  hear  any 
thing  satisfactory  about  it,  why  then  you  had  better — keep 
on  writing." 

Arthur  Clennam  looked  very  doubtful  indeed.  "  But  I  am 
obliged  to  you  at  any  rate,"  said  he,  ^*  for  your  politeness." 

*^  Not  at  all,"  replied  this  engaging  young  Barnacle.  ^'  Try 
the  thing,  and  see  how  you  like  it.  It  will  be  in  your  power 
to  give  it  up  at  any  time,  if  you  don't  like  it.  You  had  bet- 
ter take  a  lot  of  forms  away  with  you.  Give  him  a  lot  of 
forms  ! "  With  which  instruction  to  number  two,  this 
sparkling  young  Barnacle  took  a  fresh  handful  of  papers  from 
numbers  one  and  three,  and  carried  them  into  the  sanctuary, 
to  offer  to  the  presiding  idols  of  the  circumlocution  ofhce. 

Arthur  Clennam  put  his  forms  in  his  pocket  gloomily 
enough,  and  went  his  w^ay  down  the  long  stone  passage  and 
the  long  stone  staircase.     He  had  come  to  the  swing  doors 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


123 


leading  into  the  street,  and  was  waiting,  not  over  patiently, 
for  two  people  who  were  between  him  and  them  to  pass  out 
and  let  him  follow,  when  the  voice  of  one  of  them  struck 
familiarly  on  his  ear.  He  looked  at  the  speaker  and  rec- 
ognized Mr.  Meagles.  Mr.  Meagles  was  very  red  in  the 
face — redder  than  travel  could  have  made  him — and  col- 
laring a  short  man  who  was  with  him,  said,  "  Come  out,  you 
rascal,  come  out  !  " 

It  was  such  an  unexpected  hearing,  and  it  was  also  such 
an  unexpected  sight  to  see  Mr.  Meagles  burst  the  swing 
doors  open,  and  emerge  into  the  street  with  the  short  man, 
who  was  of  an  unoffending  appearance,  that  Clennam  stood 
still  for  the  moment  exchanging  looks  of  surprise  with  the 
porter.  He  followed,  however,  quickly  ;  and  saw  Mr.  Mea- 
gles going  down  the  street  with  his  enemy  at  his  side.  He 
soon  came  up  with  his  old  traveling  companion,  and  touched 
him  on  the  back.  The  choleric  face  which  Mr.  Meagles 
turned  upon  him  smoothed  when  he  saw  who  it  was,  and  he 
put  out  his  friendly  hand. 

^*  How  are  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Meagles.  **  How  d'ye  do  ?  I 
have  only  just  come  over  from  abroad.  I  am  glad  to 
see  you." 

**  And  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you.'* 

"  Thank'ee.     Thank'ee  !  " 

**  Mrs.  Meagles  and  your  daughter — ?  " 

"  Are  as  well  as  possible,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  I  only  wish 
you  had  come  upon  me  in  a  more  prepossessing  condition 
as  to  coolness." 

Though  it  was  any  thing  but  a  hot,  day,  Mr.  Meagles  was 
in  a  heated  state  that  attracted  the  attention  of  the  passers- 
by;  more  particularly  as  he  leaned  his  back  against  a  railing, 
took  off  his  hat  and  cravat,  and  heartily  rubbed  his  steaming 
head  and  face,  and  his  reddened  ears  and  neck,  without  the 
least  regard  for  public  opinion. 

"  Whew  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  dressing  again.  ^*  That's 
comfortable.     Now  I  am  cooler." 

"  You  have  been  ruffled,  Mr.  Meagles.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  bit,  and  I'll  tell  you.  Have  you  leisure  for  a  turn 
in  the  park  ?  " 

^^  As  much  as  you  please." 

**  Come  along,  then.  Ah!  you  may  well  look  at  him." 
He  happened  to  have  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  offender 
whom  Mr.  Meagles  had  so  angrily  collared.  "  He's  some- 
thing to  look  at,  that  fellow  is." 


124  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

He  was  not  much  to  look  at,  either  in  point  of  size  or  in 
point  of  dress  ;  being  merely  a  short,  square,  practical  look- 
ing man,  whose  hair  had  turned  gray,  and  in  whose  face  and 
forehead  there  were  deep  lines  of  cogitation,  which  looked 
as  though  they  were  carved  in  hard  wood.  He  was  dressed 
in  decent  black,  a  little  rusty,  and  had  the  appearance  of  a 
sagacious  master  in  some  handicraft.  He  had  a  spectacle- 
case  in  his  hand,  which  he  turned  over  and  over  while  he  was 
thus  in  question,  with  a  certain  free  use  of  the  thumb  that  is 
never  seen  but  in  a  hand  accustomed  to  tools, 

^'  You  keep  with  us,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  in  a  threatening 
kind  of  way,  "  and  I'll  introduce  you  presently.  Now, 
then!" 

Clennam  wondered  within  himself,  as  they  took  the  nearest 
way  to  the  park,  what  this  unknown  (who  complied  in 
the  gentlest  manner)  could  have  been  doing.  His  appear- 
ance did  not  at  all  justify  the  suspicion  that  he  had  been 
detected  in  designs  on  Mr.  Meagles's  pocket  handkerchief  : 
nor  had  he  any  appearance  of  being  quarrelsome  or  violent. 
He  was  a  quiet,  plain,  steady  man  ;  made  no  attempt  to 
escape  ;  and  seemed  a  little  depressed,  but  neither  ashamed 
nor  repentant.  If  he  were  a  criminal  offender,  he  must  surely 
be  an  incorrigible  hypocrite  ;  and  if  he  were  no  offender,  why 
should  Mr.  Meagles  have  collared  him  in  the  circumlocution 
office  ?  He  perceived  that  the  man  was  not  a  difficulty  in 
his  own  mind  alone,  but  in  Mr.  Meagles's  too;  for  such  con- 
versation as  they  had  together  on  the  short  way  to  the  park 
was  by  no  means  well  sustained,  and  Mr.  Meagles's  eye 
always  wandered  back  to  the  man,  even  when  he  spoke  of 
something  very  different. 

At  length  they  being  among  the  trees,  Mr.  Meagles  stopped 
short,  and  said  : 

*'  Mr.  Clennam,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  look  at  this 
man  ?  His  name  is  Doyce,  Daniel  Doyce.  You  wouldn't 
suppose  this  man  to  be  a  notorious  rascal  ;  would  you  ? ". 

^' I  certainly  should  not."  It  was  really  a  disconcerting 
question,  with  the  man  there. 

"'  No.  You  would  not.  I  know  you  would  not.  You 
wouldn't  suppose  him  to  be  a  public  offender;  would  you? " 

''  No." 

**  No.  But  he  is.  He  is  a  public  offender.  What  has  he 
been  guilty  of  ?  Murder,  manslaughter,  arson,  forgery,  swin- 
dling, housebreaking,  highway  robbery,  larceny,  conspiracy, 
fraud  ?    Which  should  you  say,  now  ? " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  125 

"  I  should  say,"  returned  Arthur  Clennam,  observing  a 
faint  smile  on  Daniel  Doyce's  face,  '^  not  one  of  them." 

^*  You  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  '*  But  he  has  been 
ingenious  and  he  has  been  trying  to  turn  his  ingenuity  to  hig 
country's  service.  That  makes  him  a  public  offender  directly, 
sir." 

Arthur  looked  at  the  man  himself,  who  only  shook  his 
head. 

*'  This  Doyce,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "is  a  smith  and  engi- 
neer. He  is  not  in  a  large  way,  but  he  is  well  known  as  a 
very  ingenious  man.  A  dozen  years  ago,  he  perfects  an 
invention  (involving  a  very  curious  secret  process)  of  great 
importance  to  his  country  and  his  fellow-creatures.  I  won't 
say  how  much  money  it  cost  him,  or  how  many  years  of  his 
life  he  had  been  about  it,  but  he  brought  it  to  perfection  a 
dozen  years  ago.  Wasn't  it  a  dozen  ?  "  said  Mr.  Meagles, 
addressing  Doyce.  "  He  is  the  most  exasperating  man  in 
the  world  ;  he  never  complains  !  " 

"  Yes.     Rather  better  than  twelve  years  ago." 

"  Rather  better  ?  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  you  mean  rather 
worse.  Well,  Mr.  Clennam.  He  addresses  himself  to  the 
government.  The  moment  he  addresses  himself  to  the  gov- 
ernment, he  becomes  a  public  offender  !  Sir,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  in  danger  of  making  himself  excessively  hot  again, 
"  he  ceases  to  be  an  innocent  citizen,  and  becomes  a  culprit. 
He  is  treated,  from  that  instant,  as  a  man  who  has  done  some 
infernal  action.  He  is  a  man  to  .be  shirked,  put  off,  brow- 
beaten, sneered  at,  handed  over  by  this  highly-connected 
young  or  old  gentleman,  that  highly-connected  young  or  old 
gentleman,  and  dodged  back  again  ;  he  is  a  man  with  no 
rights  in  his  own  time,  or  his  own  property  ;  a  mere  outlaw, 
whom  it  is  justifiable  to  get  rid  of  anyhow  ;  a  man  to  be 
worn  out  by  all  possible  means." 

It  was  not  so  difficult  to  believe,  after  the  morning's  experi- 
ence, as  Mr.  Meagles  supposed. 

''  Don't  stand  there,  Doyce,  turning  your  spectacle-case 
over  and  over,"  cried  Mr.  Meagles,  "but  tell  Mr.  Clennam 
what  you  confessed  to  me." 

"  I  undoubtedly  was  made  to  feel,"  said  the  inventor,  '*  as 
if  I  had  committed  an  offense.  In  dancing  attendance  at 
the  various  offices,  I  was  always  treated,  more  or  less,  as  if 
it  was  a  very  bad  offense.  I  have  frequently  found  it  neces- 
sary to  reflect,  for  my  own  self-support,  that  I  really  had  not 
done  any  thing  to  bring  myself  into  the   Newgate  calendar, 


126  LliTLE  DORRIT. 

but  only  wanted  to  effect  a  great  saving  and  a  great  improve- 
ment." 

"There!"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  ** Judge  whether  I  exag- 
gerate! Now  you'll  be  able  to  believe  me  when  I  tell  you 
the  rest  of  the  case." 

With  this  prelude,  Mr.  Meagles  went  through  the  narra- 
tive; the  established  narrative,  which  has  become  tiresome; 
the  matter-of-course  narrative  which  we  all  know  by  heart. 
How,  after  intermmable  attendance  and  correspondence, 
after  infinite  impertinences,  ignorances,  and  insults,  my  lords 
made  a  minute,  number  three  thousand  four  hundred  and 
seventy-two,  allowing  the  culprit  to  make  certain  trials  of  his 
invention  at  his  own  expense.  How  the  trials  were  made  in 
the  presence  of  a  board  of  six,  of  whom  two  ancient  mem- 
bers were  too  blind  to  see  it,  two  other  ancient  mem- 
bers were  too  deaf  to  hear  it,  one  other  ancient  member 
was  too  lame  to  get  near  it,  and  the  final  ancient  member 
was  too  pig-headed  to  look  at  it.  How  there  were  more 
years;  more  impertinences,  ignorances,  and  insults.  How 
my  lords  then  made  a  minute,  number  five  thousand  one 
hundred  and  three,  whereby  they  resigned  the  business  to 
the  circumlocution  office.  How  the  circumlocution  office, 
in  course  of  time,  took  up  the  business  as  if  it  were  a  brand 
new  thing  of  yesterday,  which  had  never  been  heard  of 
before;  muddled  the  business,  addled  the  business,  tossed 
the  business  in  a  wet  blanket.  How  the  impertinences, 
ignorances,  and  insults  went  through  the  multiplication  table. 
How  there  was  a  reference  of  the  invention  to  three  Barna- 
cles and  a  Stiltstalking,  who  knew  nothing  about  it;  into 
whose  heads  nothing  could  be  hammered  about  it;  who  got 
bored  about  it,  and  reported  physical  impossibilities  about 
it.  How  the  circumlocution  office,  in  a  minute,  number 
eight  thousand  seven  hundred  and  forty,  "  saw  no  reason  to 
reverse  the  decision  at  which  my  lords  had  arrived."  How 
the  circumlocution  office,  being  reminded  that  my  lords  had 
arrived  at  no  decision,  shelved  the  business.  How  there  had 
been  a  final  interview  with  the  head  of  the  circumlocution 
office  that  very  morning,  and  how  the  Brazen  Head  had 
spoken,  and  had  been,  upon  the  whole,  and  under  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  looking  at  it  from  the  various  points  of 
view,  of  opinion  that  one  of  two  courses  was  to  be  pursued  in 
respect  of  the  business;  that  was  to  say,  either  to  leave  it 
alone  for  evermore,  or  to  begin  it  all  over  again. 

"  Upon  which,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  ''  as  a  practical  man,  I 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  127 

then  and  there,  in  that  presence,  took  Doyce  by  the  collar, 
and  told  him  it  was  plain  to  me  that  he  was  an  infamous  ras- 
cal, and  treasonable  disturber  of  the  government  peace,  and 
took  him  away.  I  brought  him  out  of  the  office  door  by  the 
collar,  that  the  very  porter  might  know  I  was  a  practical 
man  who  appreciated  the  official  estimate  of  such  characters: 
and  here  we  are." 

If  that  airy  young  Barnacle  had  been  there,  he  would  have 
frankly  told  them  perhaps  that  the  circumlocution  office  had 
achieved  its  functions.  That  what  the  Barnacles  had  to  do, 
was  to  stick  on  to  the  national  ship  as  long  as  they  could. 
That  to  trim  the  ship,  lighten  the  ship,  clean  the  ship, 
would  be  to  knock  them  off;  that  they  could  but  be  knocked 
off  once;  and  that  if  the  ship  went  down  with  them  yet 
sticking  to  it,  that  was  the  ship's  look-out,  and  not  theirs. 

^' There!"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "now  you  know  all  about 
Doyce.  Except,  which  I  own  does  not  improve  my  state  of 
mind,  that  even  now  you  don't  hear  him  complain." 

*^  You  have  great  patience,"  said  Arthur  Clennam,  looking 
at  him  with  some  wonder,  ''  great  forbearance." 

*^  No,"  he  returned,  ''  I  don't  know  that  I  have  more  than 
another  man." 

^'  By  the  Lord,  you  have  more  than  I  have  though!  "  cried 
Mr.  Meagles. 

Doyce  smiled,  as  he  said  to  Clennam,  "  You  see,  my 
experience  of  these  things  does  not  begin  with  myself.  It 
has  been  in  my  way  to  know  a  little  about  them,  from  time 
to  time.  Mine  is  not  a  particular  case.  I  am  not  worse 
used  than  a  hundred  others,  who  have  put  themselves  in  the 
same  position — than  all  the  others,  I  vv-as  going  to  say." 

**  I  don't  know  that  I  should  find  that  a  consolation,  if  it 
were  my  case;  but  I  am  very  glad  that  you  do." 

"  Understand  me!  I  don't  say,"  he  replied  in  his  steady, 
planning  way,  and  looking  into  the  distance  before  him  as 
if  his  gray  eyes  were  measuring  it,  *'  that  it's  recompense  for 
a  man's  toil  and  hope;  but  it's  a  certain  sort  of  relief  to  know 
that  I  might  have  counted  on  this." 

He  spoke  in  that  quiet,  deliberate  manner,  and  in  that 
undertone,  which  is  often  observable  in  mechanics  who  con- 
sider and  adjust  with  great  nicety.  It  belonged  to  him  like 
his  suppleness  of  thumb,  or  his  peculiar  way  of  tilting  up  his 
hat  at  the  back  every  now  and  then,  as  if  he  were  contempla- 
ting some  half- finished  work  of  his  hand,  and  thinking  about  it. 

"  Disappointed  ?  "  he  went  on,  as  he  walked  between  them 


128  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

under  the  trees.  **  Yes.  No  doubt  I  am  disappointed.  Hurt } 
Yes.  No  doubt  I  am  hurt.  That's  only  natural.  But  what 
I  mean,  when  I  say  that  people  who  put  themselves  in  the 
same  position,  are  mostly  used  in  the  same  way — " 

"  In  England,"  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

"  Oh  !  of  course  I  mean  in  England.  When  they  take 
their  inventions  into  foreign  countries,  that's  quite  different. 
And  that's  the  reason  why  so  many  go  there." 

Mr.  Meagles  was  very  hot  indeed  again. 

*'  What  I  mean  is,  that  however  this  comes  to  be  the  regu- 
lar way  of  our  government,  it  is  its  regular  way.  Have  you 
ever  heard  of  any  projector  or  inventor  who  failed  to  find  it  all 
but  inaccessible,  and  whom  it  did  not  discourage  and  ill- 
treat  ?  " 

*^  I  can  not  say  that  I  ever  have." 

*'  Have  you  ever  known  it  to  be  beforehand  in  the  adop- 
tion of  any  useful  thing  ?  Ever  known  it  to  set  an  example 
of  any  useful  kind  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  good  deal  older  than  my  friend  here,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  ^'  and  I'll  answer  that.     Never." 

'*  But  we  all  three  have  known,  I  expect,'*  said  the  invent- 
or, *'  a  pretty  many  cases  of  its  fixed  determination  to  be 
miles  upon  miles,  and  years  upon  years,  behind  the  rest  of  us  ; 
and  of  its  being  found  out  persisting  in  the  use  of  things  long 
superseded,  even  after  the  better  things  were  well  known  and 
generally  taken  up  ?  " 

They  all  agreed  upon  that. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Doyce  with  a  sigh,  "  as  I  know  what 
such  a  metal  will  do  at  such  a  temperature,  and  such  a  body 
under  such  a  pressure,  so  I  may  know  (if  I  will  only  consider) 
how  these  great  lords  and  gentlemen  will  certainly  deal  with 
such  a  matter  as  mine.  I  have  no  right  to  be  surprised,  with 
a  head  upon  my  shoulders,  and  memory  in  it,  that  I  fall  into 
the  ranks  with  all  who  came  before  me.  I  ought  to  have  let 
it  alone.     I  have  had  warning  enough,  I  am  sure." 

With  that  he  put  up  his  spectacle-case,  and  said  to  Arthur, 
'Tf  I  don't  complain,  Mr.  Clennam,  I  can  feel  gratitude  ; 
and  I  assure  you  that  I  feel  it  toward  our  mutual  friend. 
Many's  the  day,  and  many's  the  way  in  which  he  has  backed 
me." 

*'  Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

Arthur  could  not  but  glance  at  Daniel  Doyce  in  the  ensu- 
ing silence.  Though  it  was  evidently  in  the  grain  of  his 
character,  and  of  his  respect  for  his  own  case,  that  he  should 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  129 

abstain  from  idle  murmuring,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  grown 
the  older,  the  sterner,  and  the  poorer,  for  his  long  endeavor. 
He  could  not  but  think  what  a  blessed  thing  it  would  have 
been  for  this  man  if  he  had  taken  a  lesson  from  the  gentlemen 
who  were  so  kind  as  to  take  the  nation's  affairs  in  charge,  and 
had  learned  how  not  to  do  it. 

Mr.  Meagles  was  hot  and  despondent  for  about  five  min- 
utes, and  then  began  to  cool  and  clear  up. 

*'  Come,  come  !  "  said  he.  "  We  shall  not  make  this  the 
better  by  being  grim." 

*'  Where  do  you  think  of  going,  Dan  ?  " 

**  I  shall  go  back  to  the  factory,"  said  Dan. 

"  Why  then,  we'll  all  go  back  to  the  factory,  or  walk  in 
that  direction,"  returned  Meagles,  cheerfully.  "Mr.  Clennam 
won't  be  deterred  by  its  being  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard." 

**  Bleeding  Heart  Yard?"  said  Clennam,  "I  want  to  go 
there." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  cried  Mr.  Meagles.  **  Come 
along  !  " 

As  they  went  along,  certainly  one  of  the  party,  and  prob- 
ably more  than  one,  thought  the  Bleeding  Heart  Yard  was 
no  inappropriate  destination  for  a  man  who  had  been  in  official 
correspondence  with  my  lords  and  the  Barnacles — and  per- 
haps had  a  misgiving  also  that  Britannia  herself  might  come 
to  look  for  lodgings  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  some  ugly  day 
or  other,  if  she  over-did  the  circumlocution  office. 


CHAPTER   XL 

LET    LOOSE. 

A  late,  dull,  autumn  night  was  closing  in  upon  the  river 
Saone.  The  stream,  like  a  sullied  looking-glass  in  a  gloomy 
place,  reflected  the  clouds  heavily  ;  and  the  low  banks  leaned 
over  here  and  there,  as  if  they  were  half  curious,  and  half 
afraid,  to  see  their  darkening  pictures  in  the  water.  The  flat 
expanse  of  country  about  Chalons  lay  a  long  heavy  streak, 
occasionally  made  a  little  ragged  by  a  row  of  poplar  trees, 
against  the  wrathful  sunset.  On  the  banks  of  the  river 
Saone  it  was  wet,  depressing,  solitary;  and  the  night  deepened 
fast. 

^  One  man,  slowly  moving  on  toward  Chalons,  was  the  only 
visible  figure  in  the  landscape.     Cain  might  have  looked  as 


130  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

lonely  and  avoided.  With  an  old  sheep-skin  knapsack  at  his 
back,  and  a  rough,  unbarked  stick  cut  out  of  some  wood  in 
his  hand;  miry,  footsore,  his  shoes  and  gaiters  trodden  out, 
his  hair  and  beard  untrimmed;  the  cloak  he  carried  over  his 
shoulder,  and  the  clothes  he  wore,  soddened  with  wet;  limp- 
ing along  in  pain  and  difficulty;  he  looked  as  if  the  clouds 
were  hurrying  from  him,  as  if  the  wail  of  the  wind  and 
the  shuddering  of  the  grass  were  directed  against  him, 
as  if  the  low,  mysterious  plashing  of  the  water  mur- 
mured at  him,  as  if  the  fitful  autumn  night  were  disturbed 
by  him. 

He  glanced  here,  and  he  glanced  there,  sullenly  but  shrink- 
ingly;  and  sometimes  stopped  and  turned  about,  and  looked 
all  round  him.  Then  he  limped  on  again,  toiling  and  mut- 
tering. 

*'  To  the  devil  with  this  plain  that  has  no  end  !  To  the 
devil  with  these  stones  that  cut  like  knives  !  To  the  devil 
with  this  dismal  darkness,  wrapping  itself  about  one  with  a 
chill  !     I  hate  you  !  " 

And  he  would  have  visited  his  hatred  upon  it  all  with  the 
scowl  he  threw  about  him,  if  he  could.  He  trudged  a  little 
further;  and  looking  into  the  distance  before  him,  stopped 
again. 

**  I,  hungry,  thirsty,  weary.  You,  imbeciles,  where  the 
lights  are  yonder,  eating  and  drinking,  and  warming  your- 
selves at  fires  !  I  wish  I  had  the  sacking  of  your  town;  I 
would  repay  you,  my  children  !  " 

But  the  teeth  he  set  at  the  town,  and  the  hand  he  shook  at 
the  town,  brought  the  town  no  nearer;  and  the  man  was 
yet  hungrier,  and  thirstier,  and  wearier,  when  his  feet  were 
on  its  jagged  pavement,  and  he  stood  looking  about  him. 

There  was  the  hotel  with  its  gateway,  and  its  savory  smell 
of  cooking;  there  was  the  cafe,  with  its  bright  windows,  and 
its  rattling  of  dominoes;  there  was  the  dyer's,  with  its  strips 
of  red  cloth  on  the  door-posts;  there  was  the  silversmith's, 
with  its  ear-rings,  and  its  offerings  for  altars;  there  was  the 
tobacco  dealer's,  with  its  lively  group  of  soldier  customers 
coming  out  pipe  in  mouth;  there  were  the  bad  odors  of  the 
town,  and  the  rain  and  the  refuse  in  the  kennels,  and  the 
faint  lamps  slung  across  the  road,  and  the  huge  diligence,  and 
its  mountain  of  luggage,  and  its  six  gray  horses  with  their 
tails  tied  up,  getting  under  weigh  at  the  coach  office.  But 
no  small  cabaret  for  a  straitened  traveler  being  within  sight, 
he  had  to  seek  one  round  the  dark  corner,  where  the  cabbage 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  131 

leaves  lay  thickest,  trodden  about  the  public  cistern  at  which 
women  had  not  yet  left  off  drawing  water.  There,  in  the 
back  street  he  found  one,  the  Break  of  Day.  The  curtained 
windows  clouded  the  Break  of  Day,  but  it  seemed  light  and 
warm,  and  it  announced  in  legible  inscriptions,  with  appro- 
priate pictorial  embellishment  of  billiard  cue  and  ball,  that 
at  the  Break  of  Day  one  could  play  billiards;  that  there  one 
could  find  meat,  drink,  and  lodging,  whether  one  came  on 
horseback,  or  came  on  foot;  and  that  it  kept  good  wines, 
liquors,  and  brandy.  The  man  turned  the  handle  of  the 
Break  of  Day  door,  and  limped  in. 

He  touched  his  discolored  slouched  hat,  as  he  came  in  at 
the  door,  to  a  few  men  who  occupied  the  room.  Two  were 
playing  dominoes  at  one  of  the  little  tables;  three  or  four 
were  seated,  round  the  stove,  conversing  as  they  smoked; 
the  billiard-table  in  the  center  was  left  alone  for  the  time; 
the  landlady  of  the  Day-break  sat  behind  her  little  counter 
among  her  cloudy  bottles  of  syrups,  baskets  of  cakes,  and 
leaden  drainage  for  glasses,  working  at  her  needle. 

Making  his  way  to  an  empty  little  table,  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  behind  the  stove,  he  put  down  his  knapsack  and  his 
cloak  upon  the  ground.  As  he  raised  his  head  from  stoop- 
ing to  do  so,  he  found  the  landlady  beside  him. 

**  One  can  lodge  here  to-night,  madame  ?" 

"  Perfectly!  "  said  the  landlady  in  a  high,  sing-song  cheery 
voice. 

"  Good.  One  can  dine — sup — what  you  please  to  call 
it?*' 

**  Ah,  perfectly  !  "  cried  the  landlady  as  before. 

"  Dispatch  then,  madame,  if  you  please.  Something  to 
eat,  as  quickly  as  you  can;  and  some  wine  at  once.  I  am 
exhausted." 

*'  It  is  very  bad  weather,  monsieur,"  said  the  landlady. 

"  Cursed  weather." 

"  And  a  very  long  road." 

"  A  cursed  road." 

His  hoarse  voice  failed  him,  and  he  rested  his  head  upon 
his  hands  until  a  bottle  of  wine  was  brought  from  the  counter. 
Having  filled  and  emptied  his  little  tumbler  twice,  and  having 
broken  off  an  end  from  the  great  loaf  that  was  set  before 
him  with  his  cloth  and  napkin,  soup-plate,  salt,  pepper,  and 
oil,  he  rested  his  back  against  the  corner  of  the  wall,  made 
a  couch  of  the  bench  on  which  he  sat,  and  began  to  chew 
crust  until  such  time  as  his  repast  should  be  ready. 


132  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

There  had  been  that  momentary  interruption  of  the  talk 
about  the  stove,  and  that  temporary  inattention  to  and  dis- 
traction from  one  another,  which  is  usually  inseparable  in 
such  company  from  the  arrival  of  a  stranger.  It  had  passed 
over  by  this  time;  and  the  men  had  done  glancing  at  him, 
and  were  talking  again. 

*'  That's  the  true  reason,"  said  one  of  them,  bringing  a 
story  he  had  been  telling  to  a  close,  ''  that's  the  true  reason 
why  they  said  that  the  devil  was  let  loose."  The  speaker 
was  the  tall  Swiss  belonging  to  the  church,  and  he  brought 
something  of  the  authority  of  the  church  into  the  discussion 
— especially  as  the  devil  was  in  question. 

The  landlady,  having  given  her  directions  for  the  new 
guest's  entertainment  to  her  husband,  who  acted  as  cook  to 
the  Break  of  Day,  had  resumed  her  needlework  behind  her 
counter.  She  was  a  smart,  neat,  bright  little  woman,  with  a 
good  deal  of  cap  and  a  good  deal  of  stocking,  and  she 
struck  into  the  conversation  with  several  laughing  nods  of 
her  head,  but  without  looking  up  from  her  work. 

"Ah,  heaven,  then,"  said  she.  "  When  the  boat  came  up 
from  Lyons,  and  brought  the  news  that  the  devil  was  actu- 
ally let  loose  at  Marseilles,  some  fly-catchers  swallowed  it. 
But  I  ?     No,  not  L" 

*'  Madame,  you  are  always  right,"  returned  the  tall  Swiss. 
**  Doubtless  you  were  enraged  against  that  man,  madame  ?  " 

'^  Ay,  yes,  then  !  "  cried  the  landlady  raising  her  eyes 
from  her  work,  opening  them  very  wide,  and  tossing  her 
head  on  one  side.     ''  Naturally,  yes." 

"  He  was  a  bad  subject." 

"  He  was  a  wicked  wretch,"  said  the  landlady,  "  and  well 
merited  what  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape.  So 
much  the  worse." 

"  Stay,  madame  !  Let  us  see,"  returned  the  Swiss,  argu- 
mentatively  turning  his  cigar  between  his  lips.  *'  It  may 
have  been  his  unfortunate  destiny.  He  may  have  been  the 
child  of  circumstances.  It  is  always  possible  that  he  had, 
and  has,  good  in  him  if  one  did  but  know  how  to  find  it 
out.     Philosophical  philanthropy  teaches — " 

The  rest  of  the  little  knot  about  the  stove  murmured  an 
objection  to  the  introduction  of  that  threatening  expression. 
Even  the  two  players  at  dominoes  glanced  up  from  their 
game,  as  if  to  protest  against  philosophical  philanthropy 
being  brought  by  name  into  the  Break  of  Day. 

*'  Hold  there,   you  and  your  philanthropy  !  "  cried  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  133 

smiling  landlady,  nodding  her  head  more  than  ever.  '^Listen 
then.  I  am  a  woman,  L  I  know  nothing  of  philosophical 
philanthropy.  But  I  know  what  I  have  seen,  and  what  I 
have  looked  in  the  face,  in  this  world  here,  where  I  find 
myself.  And  I  tell  you  this,  my  friend,  that  there  are  peo- 
ple (men  and  women  both,  unfortunately)  who  have  no 
good  in  them — none.  That  there  are  people  whom  it  is 
necessary  to  detest  without  compromise.  That  there  are 
people  who  must  be  dealt  with  as  enemies  of  the  human 
race.  That  there  are  people  who  have  no  human  heart,  and 
who  must  be  crushed  like  savage  beasts  and  cleared  out  of 
the  way.  They  are  but  few,  1  hope;  but  I  have  seen  (in 
this  world  here  where  I  find  myself,  and  even  at  the 
little  Break  of  Day)  that  there  are  such  people.  And  I  do 
not  doubt  that  this  man — whatever  they  call  him,  I  forget 
his  name — is  one  of  them." 

The  landlady's  lively  speech  was  received  with  greater 
favor  at  the  Break  of  Day,  than  it  would  have  elicited  from 
certain  amiable  whitewashers  of  the  class  she  so  unreason- 
ably objected  to,  nearer  Great  Britain. 

^'  My  faith  I  If  your  philosophical  philanthropy,"  said 
the  landlady,  putting  down  her  work,  and  rising  to  take  the 
stranger's  soup  from  her  husband,  who  appeared  with  it  at  a 
side  door,  ^'  puts  any  body  at  the  mercy  of  such  people  by 
holding  terms  with  them  at  all,  in  words  or  deeds,  or  both, 
take  it  away  from  the  Break  of  Day,  for  it  isn't  worth  a  sou." 

As  she  placed  the  soup  before  the  guest,  who  changed 
his  attitude  to  a  sitting  one,  he  looked  her  full  in  the  face, 
and  his  mustache  went  up  under  his  nose,  and  his  nose 
came  down  over  his  mustache. 

"  Well  !  "  said  the  previous  speaker,  '*  let  us  come  back 
to  our  subject.  Leaving  all  that  aside,  gentlemen,  it  was 
because  the  man  was  acquitted  on  his  trial,  that  people  said 
at  Marseilles  that  the  devil  was  let  loose.  That  was  how 
the  phrase  began  to  circulate,  and  what  it  meant ;  nothing 
more." 

^*  How  do  they  call  him  ?  "  said  the  landlady.  '^  Biraud, 
is  it  not  ?  " 

'^  Rigaud,  madame,"  returned  the  tall  Swiss. 

''  Rigaud  !     To  be  sure." 

The  traveler's  soup  was  succeeded  by  a  dish  of  meat, 
and  that  by  a  dish  of  vegetables.  He  ate  all  that  was  placed 
before  him,  emptied  his  bottle  of  wine,  called  for  a  glass  of 
rum,  and  smoked  his  cigarette  with  his  cup  of  coffee.     As 


134  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

he  became  refreshed,  he  become  overbearing  ;  and  patro- 
nized the  company  at  the  Day-break  in  certain  small  talk,  at 
which  he  assisted,  as  ii  his  condition  were  far  above  his 
appearance. 

The  company  might  have  had  other  engagements,  or  they 
might  have  felt  their  inferiority,  but  in  any  case  they  dis- 
persed by  degrees,  and  not  being  replaced  by  other  com- 
pany, left  their  new  patron  in  possession  of  the  Break  of 
Day.  The  landlord  was  clinking  about  in  his  kitchen  ; 
the  landlady  was  quiet  at  her  work,  and  the  refreshed 
traveler  sat  smoking  by  the  stove,  warming  his  ragged 
feet. 

^^  Pardon  me,  madame — that  Biraud." 

*'  Rigaud,  monsieur." 

*'  Rigaud.  Pardon  me  again — has  contracted  your  dis- 
pleasure, how  ? " 

The  landlady,  who  had  been,  at  one  moment  thinking 
within  herself  that  this  was  a  handsome  man,  at  another 
moment  that  this  was  an  ill-looking  man,  observed  the  nose 
coming  down  and  the  mustache  going  up,  and  strongly  in- 
clined to  the  latter  decision.  Rigaud  was  a  criminal,  she 
said,  who  had  killed  his  wife. 

'*  Ay,  ay  ?  Death  of  my  life,  that's  a  criminal  indeed. 
But  how  do  you  know  it  ?  " 

"  All  the  world  knows  it." 

*'  Hah  !     And  yet  he  escaped  justice  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  the  law  could  not  prove  it  against  him  to  its 
satisfaction.  So  the  law  says.  Nevertheless,  all  the  world 
knows  he  did  it.  The  people  knew  it  so  well,  that  they 
tried  to  tear  him  to  pieces." 

^'  Being  all  in  perfect  accord  with  their  own  wives  ?  "  said 
the  guest.     *'  Ha-ha  !  " 

The  landlady  of  the  Break  of  Day  looked  at  him  again, 
and  felt  almost  confirmed  in  her  last  decision.  He  bad 
a  fine  hand  though,  and  he  turned  it  with  a  great  show. 
She  began  once  more  to  think  that  he  was  not  ill-looking 
after  all. 

*'  Did  you  mention,  madame — or  was  it  mentioned  among 
the  gentlemen — what  became  of  him  ?  " 

The  landlady  shook  her  head  ;  it  being  the  first  conver- 
sational stage  at  which  her  vivacious  earnestness  had  ceased 
to  nod  itj  keeping  time  to  what  she  said.  It  had  been  men- 
tioned at  the  Day-break,  she  remarked,  on  the  authority  of 
the   journals,  that  he  had  been  kept  in  prison  for  his  own 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  135 

safety.  However  that  might  be,  he  had  escaped  his  deserts, 
so  much  the  worse. 

The  guest  sat  looking  at  her  as  he.  smoked  out  his  final 
cigarette,  and  as  she  sat  with  her  head  bent  over  her  work, 
with  an  expression  that  might  have  resolved  her  doubts,  and 
brought  her  to  a  lasting  conclusion  on  the  subject  of  his  good 
or  bad  looks  if  she  had  seen  it.  When  she  did  look  up,  the 
expression  was  not  there.  The  hand  was  smoothing  his 
shaggy  mustache. 

^*  May  one  ask  to  be  shown  to  bed,  madame?  " 

Very  willingly,  monsieur.  Hola,  my  husband  !  My  hus- 
band would  conduct  him  up  stairs.  There  was  one  trav- 
eler there,  asleep,  who  had  gone  to  bed  very  early  indeed, 
being  overpowered  by  fatigue  ;  but  it  was  a  large  chamber 
with  two  beds  in  it,  and  space  enough  for  twenty.  This  the 
landlady  of  the  Break  of  Day  chirpingly  explained,  calling 
between  whiles,  Hola,  my  husband  !    out  at  the  side  door. 

My  husband  answered  at  length,  ^*  It  is  I,  my  wife  !  "  and 
presenting  himself  in  his  cook's  cap,  lighted  the  traveler  up 
a  steep  and  narrow  staircase  ;  the  traveler  carrying  his  own 
cloak  and  knapsack,  and  bidding  the  landlady  good-night 
with  a  complimentary  reference  to  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  again  to-morrow.  It  was  a  large  room,  with  a  rough 
splintery  floor,  unplastered  rafters  overhead,  and  two  bed- 
steads on  opposite  sides.  Here  my  husband  put  down 
the  candle  he  carried,  and  with  a  sidelong  look  at  his 
guest  stooping  over  his  knapsack,  gruffly  gave  him  the  in- 
struction, "  The  bed  to  the  right  !  "  and  left  him  to  his  re- 
pose. The  landlord,  whether  he  was  a  good  or  a  bad  phy- 
siognomist, had  fully  made  up  his  mind  that  the  guest  was 
an  ill-looking  fellow. 

The  guest  looked  contemptuously  at  the  clean  coarse 
bedding  prepared  for  him,  and,  sitting  down  on  the  rush 
chair  at  the  bedside,  drew  his  money  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  told  it  over  in  his  hand.  "  One  must  eat,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  *'  but  by  heaven  I  must  eat  at  the  cost 
of  some  other  man  to-morrow  !  " 

As  he  sat  pondering,  and  mechanically  weighing  his  money 
in  his  palm,  the  deep  breathing  of  the  traveler  in  the  other 
bed  fell  so  regularly  upon  his  hearing  that  it  attracted  his 
eyes  in  that  direction.  The  man  was  covered  up  warm,  and 
had  drawn  the  white  curtain  at  his  head,  so  that  he  could 
be  only  heard,  not  seen.  But  the  deep  regular  breathing, 
still  going  on  while  the  other  was  taking  off  his  worn  shoes 


136  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  gaiters,  and  still  continuing  when  he  had  laid  aside 
his  coat  and  cravat,  became  at  length  a  strong  provocative 
to  curiosity,  and  incentive  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  sleeper's 
face. 

The  waking  traveler,  therefore,  stole  a  little  nearer,  and 
yet  a  little  nearer,  and  a  little  nearer,  to  the  sleeping  travel- 
er's bed,  until  he  stood  close  beside  it.  Even  then  he  could 
not  see  his  face,  for  he  had  drawn  the  sheet  over  it.  The 
regular  breathing  still  continuing,  he  put  his  smooth  white 
hand  (such  a  treacherous  hand  it  looked,  as  it  went  creep- 
ing from  him  !  )  to  the  sheet,  and  gently  lifted  it  away. 

"  Death  of  my  soul  !  "  he  whispered,  falling  back,  "  here's 
Cavalletto  !  " 

The  little  Italian,  previously  influenced  in  his  sleep  per- 
haps by  the  stealthy  presence  at  his  bedside,  stopped  at  his 
regular  breathing,  and  with  a  long  deep  respiration  opened 
his  eyes.  At  first  they  were  not  awake,  though  open.  He 
lay  for  some  seconds  looking  placidly  at  his  old  prison  com- 
panion, and  then,  all  at  once,  with  a  cry  of  surprise  and 
alarm,  sprung  out  of  bed. 

"  Hush  !  What's  the  matter  ?  Keep  quiet  !  It's  I.  You 
know  me  ? "  cried  the  other,  in  a  suppressed  voice. 

But  John  Baptist,  widely  staring,  muttering  a  number  of 
invocations  and  ejaculations,  tremblingly  backing  into  a 
corner,  slipping  on  his  trowsers,  and  tying  his  coat  by  the 
two  sleeves  round  his  neck,  manifested  an  unmistakable 
desire  to  escape  by  the  door  rather  than  renew  the  acquaint- 
ance. Seeing  this,  his  old  prison  comrade  fell  back  upon 
the  door,  and  set  his  shoulders  against  it. 

^'  Cavalletto  !  Wake,  boy  !  Rub  your  eyes  and  look  at 
me.  Not  the  name  you  used  to  call  me — don't  use  that — 
Lagnier,  say  Lagnier  !  " 

John  Baptist,  staring  at  him  with  eyes  opened  to  their 
utmost  width,  made  a  number  of  those  national,  backhanded 
shakes  of  the  right  forefinger  in  the  air,  as  if  he  were 
resolved  on  negativing  beforehand  every  thing  that  the  other 
could  possibly  advance,  during  the  whole  term  of  his  life. 

**  Cavalletto  !  Give  me  your  hand.  You  know  Lagnier 
the  gentleman.     Touch  the  hand  of  a  gentleman  !  " 

Submitting  himself  to  the  old  tone  of  condescending 
authority,  John  Baptist,  not  at  all  steady  on  his  legs  as  yet, 
advanced  and  put  his  hand  in  his  patron's.  Monsieur  Lag- 
nier laughed  ;  and  having  given  it  a  squeeze,  tossed  it  up 
and  let  it  go. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  137 

"  Then  you  were — "  faltered  John  Baptist. 

"  Not  shaved  ?  No.  See  here  !  "  cried  Lagnier,  giving 
his  head  a  twirl  ;  ''as  tight  on  a3  your  own." 

John  Baptist,  with  a  slight  shiver,  looked  all  around  the 
room  as  if  to  recall  where  he  was.  His  patron  took  that 
opportunity  of  turning  the  key  in  the  door,  and  then  sat 
down  upon  his  bed. 

"  Look  !  "  he  said,  holding  up  his  shoes  and  gaiters. 
*'  That's  a  poor  trim  for  a  gentleman,  you'll  say.  No  matter, 
you  shall  see  how  soon  I'll  mend  it.  Come  and  sit  down. 
Take  your  old  place  !  " 

John  Baptist,  looking  any  thing  but  re-assured,  sat  down 
on  the  floor  at  the  bedside,  keeping  his  eyes  upon  his  patron 
all  the  time. 

''  That's  well  !  "  cried  Lagnier.  "  Now  we  might  be  in 
the  old  infernal  hole  again,  hey  ?  How  long  have  you  been 
out  ? " 

*'  Two  days  after  you,  my  master." 

"  How  do  you  come  here  ?" 

"  I  was  cautioned  not  to  stay  there,  and  so  I  left  the  town 
at  once,  and  since  then  I  have  changed  about.  I  have  been 
doing  odds  and  ends  at  Avignon,  at  Pont  Esprit,  at  Lyons  ; 
upon  the  Rhone,  upon  the  Saone."  As  he  spoke,  he 
rapidly  mapped  the  places  out  with  his  sunburned  hand  on 
the  floor. 

''  And  where  are  you  going  ?  ** 

"  Going,  my  master  ?  " 

*'Ay!" 

John  Baptist  seemed  to  desire  to  evade  the  question  with- 
out knowing  how.  ''  By  Bacchus  !  "  he  said  at  last,  as  if  he 
were  forced  to  the  admission,  "  I  have  sometimes  had  a 
thought  of  going  to  Paris,  and  perhaps  to  England." 

''  Cavalletto.  This  is  in  confidence.  I  also  am  going  to 
Paris,  and  perhaps  to  England.     We'll  go  together." 

The  little  man  nodded  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth  ; 
and  yet  seemed  not  quite  convinced  that  it  was  a  surpass- 
ingly desirable  arrangement. 

''We'll  go  together,"  repeated  Lagnier.  "You  shall  see 
how  soon  I  will  force  myself  to  be  recognized  as  a  gentle- 
man, and  you  shall  profit  by  it.  Is  it  agreed  ?  Are  we  one  ?  " 

"Oh,  surely,  surely  !  "  said  the  little  man. 

"  Then  you  shall  hear  before  I  sleep — and  in  six  words, 
for  I  want  sleep — how  I  appear  before  you,  I  Lagnier. 
Remember  that.     Not  the  other." 


138  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Altro,  altro  !     Not  Ri "     Before  John  Baptist  could 

finish  the  name,  his  comrade  had  got  his  hand  under  his 
chin  and  fiercely  shut  up  his  mouth. 

*'  Death  !  what  are  you  doing  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  be 
trampled  upon  and  stoned  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  trampled 
upon  and  stoned  ?  You  would  be.  You  don't  imagine  that 
they  would  set  upon  me,  and  let  my  prison  chum  go  ?  Don't 
think  it !  " 

There  was  an  expression  in  his  face  as  he  released  his 
grip  of  his  friend's  jaw,  from  which  his  friend  inferred,  that 
if  the  course  of  events  really  came  to  any  stoning  and  tramp- 
ling, Monsieur  Lagnier  would  so  distinguish  him  with  his 
notice  as  to  insure  his  having  his  full  share  of  it.  He 
remembered  what  a  cosmopolitan  gentleman  Monsieur  Lag- 
nier was,  and  how  few  weak  distinctions  he  made. 

^*  I  am  a  man,"  said  Monsieur  Lagnier,  "  whom  society 
has  deeply  wronged  since  you  last  saw  me.  You  know  that 
I  am  sensitive  and  brave,  and  that  it  is  my  character  to 
govern.  How  has  society  respected  those  qualities  in  me  ? 
I  have  been  shrieked  at  through  the  streets.  I  have  been 
guarded  through  the  streets  against  men,  and  especially 
women,  running  at  me  armed  with  any  weapons  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on.  I  have  lain  in  prison  for  security,  with 
the  place  of  my  confinement  kept  a  secret,  lest  I  should  be 
torn  out  of  it  and  felled  by  a  hundred  blows.  I  have  been 
carted  out  of  Marseilles  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  carried 
leagues  away  from  it  packed  in  straw.  It  has  not  been  safe 
for  me  to  go  near  my  house  ;  and,  with  a  beggar's  pittance 
in  my  pocket,  I  have  walked  through  vile  mud  and  weather 
ever  since,  until  my  feet  are  crippled — look  at  them  !  Such 
are  the  humiliations  that  society  has  inflicted  upon  me,  pos- 
sessing the  qualities  I  have  mentioned,  and  which  you  know 
me  to  possess.     But  society  shall  pay  for  it." 

All  this  he  said  in  his  companion's  ear,  and  with  his  hand 
before  his  lips. 

**  Even  here,"  he  went  on  in  the  same  way,  "  even  in  this 
mean  drinking-shop,  society  pursues  me.  Madame  defames 
me,  and  her  guests  defame  me.  I,  too,  a  gentleman  with 
manners  and  accomplishments  to  strike  them  dead  !  But 
the  wrongs  society  has  heaped  upon  me  are  treasured  in  this 
breast." 

To  all  of  which  John  Baptist,  listening  attentively  to  the 
suppressed  hoarse  voice,  said  from  time  to  time,  **  Surely, 
surely  !  "  tossing  his  head  and  shutting  his  eyes,  as  if  there 


LITTLE  DORRIT.    "  139 

were  the  clearest  case  against  society  that  perfect  candor 
could  make  out. 

^'  Put  my  shoes  there/'  continued  Lagnier.  "  Hang  my 
cloak  to  dry  there  by  the  door.  Take  my  hat."  He  obeyed 
each  instruction  as  it  was  given.  "  And  this  is  the  bed  to 
which  society  consigns  me,  is  it  ?     Hah.      Very  well  !  " 

As  he  stretched  out  his  length  upon  it,  with  a  ragged 
handkerchief  bound  round  his  wicked  head,  and  only  his 
wicked  head  showing  above  the  bedclothes,  John  Baptist 
was  rather  strongly  reminded  of  what  had  so  very  nearly 
happened  to  prevent  the  mustache  from  any  more  going  up 
as  it  did,  and  the  nose  from  any  more  coming  down  as  it  did. 

"  Shaken  out  of  destiny's  dice-box  again  into  your  com- 
pany, eh  ?  By  heaven  !  So  much  the  better  for  you.  You'll 
profit  by  it.  I  shall  need  a  long  rest.  Let  me  sleep  in  the 
morning." 

John  Baptist  replied  that  he  should  sleep  as  long  as  he 
would,  and  wishing  him  a  happy  night,  put  out  the  candle. 
One  might  have  supposed  that  the  next  proceeding  of  the 
Italian  would  have  been  to  undress  ;  but  he  did  exactly  the 
reverse,  and  dressed  himself  from  head  to  foot,  saving  his 
shoes.  When  he  had  so  done,  he  lay  down  upon  his  bed 
with  some  of  its  coverings  over  him,  and  his  coat  still  tied 
round  his  neck,  to  get  through  the  night. 

When  he  started  up,  the  godfather  Break  of  Day  was 
peeping  at  its  namesake.  He  rose,  took  his  shoes  in  his  hand, 
turned  the  key  in  the  door  with  great  caution,  and  crept  down 
stairs.  Nothing  was  astir  there  but  the  smell  of  coffee,  wine, 
tobacco,  and  syrups  ;  and  madame's  little  counter  looked 
ghastly  enough.  But  he  had  paid  madame  his  little  note  at  it 
over  night,  and  wanted  to  see  nobody — wanted  nothing  but 
to  get  on  his  shoes  and  his  knapsack,  open  the  door,  and  run 
away. 

He  prospered  in  his  object.  No  movement  or  voice  was 
heard  when  he  opened  the  door  ;  no  wicked  head  tied  up  in  a 
ragged  handkerchief  looked  out  of  the  upper  window.  When 
the  sun  had  raised  his  full  disk  above  the  flat  line  of  the 
horizon,  and  was  striking  fire  out  of  the  long,  muddy  vista  of 
paved  road  with  its  weary  avenue  of  little  trees,  a  black 
speck  moved  along  the  road  and  splashed  among  the  flam- 
ing pools  of  rain-water,  which  black  speck  was  John  Baptist 
Cavalletto  running  away  from  his  patron. 


I40  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

CHAPTER    XIL 

BLEEDING     HEART      YARD. 

In  London  itself,  though  in  the  old  rustic  road  toward  a 
suburb  of  note  where  in  the  days  of  William  Shakespeare, 
author  and  stage-player,  there  were  royal  hunting-seats,  how- 
beit  no  sport  is  left  there  now  but  for  hunters  of  men.  Bleed- 
ing Heart  Yard  was  to  be  found.  A  place  much  changed 
in  feature  and  in  fortune,  yet  with  some  relish  of  ancient 
greatness  about  it.  Two  or  three  mighty  stacks  of  chimneys, 
and  a  few  large  dark  rooms  which  had  escaped  being  walled 
and  subdivided  out  of  the  recognition  of  their  old  propor- 
tions, gave  the  yard  a  character.  It  was  inhabited  by  poor 
people,  who  set  up  their  rest  among  its  faded  glories,  as 
Arabs  of  the  desert  pitch  their  tents  among  the  fallen  stones 
of  the  Pyramids;  but  there  was  a  family  sentimental  feeling 
prevalent  in  the  yard,  that  it  had  a  character. 

As  if  the  aspiring  city  had  become  puffed  up  in  the  very 
ground  on  which  it  stood,  the  ground  had  so  risen  about 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard  that  you  got  into  it  down  a  flight  of 
steps  which  formed  no  part  of  the  original  approach,  and  got 
out  of  it  by  a  low  gate-way  into  a  maze  of  shabby  streets, 
which  went  about  and  about,  tortuously  ascending  to  the 
level  again.  At  this  end  of  the  yard  and  over  the  gate-way, 
was  the  factory  of  Daniel  Doyce,  often  heavily  beating 
like  a  bleeding  heart  of  iron,  with  the  clink  of  metal  upon 
metal. 

The  opinion  of  the  yard  was  divided  respecting  the  deriva- 
tion of  its  name.  The  more  practical  of  its  inmates  abided 
by  the  tradition  of  a  murder;  the  gentler  and  more  imagi- 
native inhabitants,  including  the  whole  of  the  tender  sex, 
were  loyal  to  the  legend  of  a  young  lady  of  former  times 
closely  imprisoned  in  her  chamber  by  a  cruel  father  for 
remaining  true  to  her  own  true  love,  and  refusing  to  marry 
the  suitor  he  chose  for  her.  The  legend  related  how  that 
the  young  lady  used  to  be  seen  up  at  her  window  behind  the 
bars,  murmuring  a  love-lorn  song  of  which  the  burden  was, 
*'  Bleeding  Heart,  Bleeding  Heart,  bleeding  away,"  until  she 
died.  It  was  objected  by  the  murderous  party  that  this 
refrain  was  notoriously  the  invention  of  a  tambour-worker, 
a  spinster  and  romantic,  still  lodging  in  the  yard.  But,  for- 
asmuch as  all  favorite  legends  must  be  associated  with  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  141 

affections,  and  as  many  more  people  fall  in  love  than  com- 
mit murder — which  it  may  be  hoped,  howsoever  bad  we 
are,  will  continue  until  the  end  of  the  world  to  be  the  dis- 
pensation under  which  we  shall  live — the  Bleeding  Heart, 
Bleeding  Heart,  bleeding  away  story,  carried  the  day  by  a 
great  majority.  Neither  party  would  listen  to  the  antiquaries 
who  delivered  learned  lectures  in  the  neighborhood,  show- 
ing the  Bleeding  Heart  to  have  been  the  heraldic  cognizance 
of  the  old  family  to  whom  the  property  had  once  belonged. 
And,  considering  that  the  hour-glass  they  turned  from  year 
to  year  was  filled  with  the  earthiest  and  coarsest  sand,  the 
Bleeding  Heart  Yarders  had  reason  enough  for  objecting  to 
be  despoiled  of  the  one  little  golden  grain  of  poetry  that 
sparkled  in  it. 

'■'  Down  into  the  yard,  by  way  of  the  steps,  came  Daniel 
Doyce,  Mr.  Meagles,  and  Clennam.  Passing  along  the  yard, 
and  between  the  open  doors  on  either  hand,  all  abundantly 
garnished  with  light  children  nursing  heavy  ones,  they 
arrived  at  its  opposite  boundary  the  gate-way.  Here  Arthur 
Clennam  stopped  to  look  about  him  for  the  domicile  of 
Plornish,  plasterer:  whose  name,  according  to  the  custom  of 
Londoners,  Daniel  Doyce  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  to 
that  hour. 

It  was  plain  enough,  nevertheless,  as  Little  Dorrit  had 
said;  over  a  lime-splashed  gate-way  in  the  corner,  within 
which  Plornish  kept  a  ladder  and  a  barrel  or  two.  The  last 
house  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard  which  she  had  described  as 
his  place  of  habitation,  was  a  large  house,  let  off  to  various 
tenants;  but  Plornish  ingeniously  hinted  that  he  lived  in  the 
parlor,  by  means  of  a  painted  hand  under  his  name,  the 
forefinger  of  which  hand  (on  which  the  artist  had  depicted 
a  ring  and  a  most  elaborate  nail  of  the  genteelest  form) 
referred  all  inquirers  to  that  apartment. 

Parting  from  his  companions,  after  arranging  another  meet- 
ing with  Mr.  Meagles,  Clennam  went  alone  into  the  entry,  and 
knocked  with  his  knuckles  at  the  parlor-door.  It  was  opened 
presently  by  a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  whose  un- 
occupied hand  was  hastily  re-arranging  the  upper  part  of  her 
dress.  This  was  Mrs.  Plornish,  and  this  maternal  action  was 
the  action  of  Mrs.  Plornish  during  a  large  part  of  her  waking 
existence. 

Was  Mr.  Plornish  at  home  ?  ^'  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Plornish,  a  civil  woman,  "  not  to  deceive  you,  he's  gone  to 
look  for  a  job." 


142  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Not  to  deceive  you,  was  a  method  of  speech  with  Mrs. 
Plornish.  She  would  deceive  you,  under  any  circumstances, 
as  little  as  might  be  ;  but  she  had  a  trick  of  answering  in 
this  provisional  form. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  be  back  soon,  if  I  wait  for  him  ? " 

"  I  have  been  expecting  him,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish,  "  this 
half-an-hour,  at  any  minute  of  time.     Walk  in,  sir." 

Arthur  entered  the  rather  dark  and  close  parlor  (though 
it  was  lofty  too),  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  she  placed  for  him. 

"  Not  to  deceive  you,  sir,  I  notice  it,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish, 
"and  I  take  it  kind  of  you." 

He  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  she  meant ;  and  by 
expressing  as  much  in  his  looks,  elicited  her  explanation. 

"  It  ain't  many  that  comes  into  a  poor  place,  that  deems 
it  worth  their  while  to  move  their  hats,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish. 
"  But  people  think  more  of  it  than  people  think." 

Clennam  returned,  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  in  so  very 
slight  a  courtesy  being  unusual.  Was  that  all !  And  stoop- 
ing down  to  pinch  the  cheek  of  another  young  child  who  was 
sitting  on  the  floor,  staring  at  him,  asked  Mrs.  Plornish  ho\T 
old  that  fine  boy  was  ? 

"  Four  years  just  turned,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish.  "  He  is 
a  fine  little  fellow,  ain't  he,  sir?  But  this  one  is  rather  sick- 
ly."  She  tenderly  hushed  the  baby  in  her  arms,  as  she  said 
it.  "  You  wouldn't  mind  my  asking  if  it  happened  to  be  a 
job  as  you  was  come  about,  sir,  would  you?"  added  Mrs. 
Plornish,  wistfully. 

She  asked  it  so  anxiously,  that  if  he  had  been  in  possession 
of  any  kind  of  tenement,  he  would  have  had  it  plastered  a  foot 
deep,  rather  than  answer  no.  But  he  was  obliged  to  answer 
no;  and  he  saw  a  shade  of  disappointment  on  her  face,  as 
she  checked  a  sigh,  and  looked  at  the  low  fire.  Then  he 
saw  also,  that  Mrs.  Plornish  was  a  young  woman,  made  some- 
what slatternly  in  herself  and  her  belongings  by  povert]/'; 
and  so  dragged  at  by  poverty  and  the  children  together,  that 
their  united  forces  had  already  dragged  her  face  into  wrinkles. 

"All  such  things  as  jobs,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish,  "seems  to 
me  have  gone  underground,  they  do  indeed."  (Herein  Mrs. 
Plornish  limited  her  remark  to  the  plastering  trade,  and 
spoke  without  reference  to  the  circumlocution  office  and  the 
Barnacle  family.) 

"  Is  it  so  difficult  to  get  work  ? "  asked  Arthur  Clennam. 

"  Plornish  finds  it  so,"  she  returned.  "  He  is  quite  unfor- 
tunate.    Really  he  is." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  143 

Really  he  was.  He  was  one  of  those  many  wayfarers  on 
the  road  of  life,  who  seem  to  be  afflicted  with  supernatural 
corns,  rendering  it  impossible  for  them  to  keep  up  even  with 
their  lame  competitors.  A  willing,  working,  soft-hearted,  not 
hard-headed  fellow,  Plornish  took  his  fortune  as  smoothly  as 
could  be  expected;  but  it  was  a  rough  one.  It  so  rarely 
happened  that  any  body  seemed  to  want  him,  it  was  such  an 
exceptional  case  when  his  powers  were  in  any  request,  that 
his  misty  mind  could  not  make  out  how  it  happened.  He 
took  it  as  it  came,  therefore;  he  tumbled  into  all  kinds  of 
difficulties  and  tumbled  out  of  them  ;  and,  by  tumbling 
through  life,  got  himself  considerably  bruised. 

"  It's  not  for  want  of  looking  after  jobs,  I  am  sure,"  said 
Mrs.  Plornish,  lifting  up  her  eyebrows,  and  searching  for  a 
solution  of  the  problem  between  the  bars  of  the  grate;  "nor 
yet  for  want  of  working  at  them,  when  they  are  to  be  got. 
No  one  ever  heard  my  husband  complain  of  work." 

Somehow  or  other,  this  was  the  general  misfortune  of 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard.  From  time  to  time  there  were  public 
complaints,  pathetically  going  about,  of  labor  being  scarce — 
which  certain  people  seemed  to  take  extraordinarily  ill,  as 
though  they  had  an  absolute  right  to  it  on  their  own  terms — 
but  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  though  as  willing  a  yard  as  any  in 
Britain,  was  never  the  better  for  the  demand.  That  high  old 
family,  the  Barnacles,  had  long  been  too  busy  with  their  great 
principle  to  look  into  the  matter;  and  indeed  the  matter  had 
nothing  to  do  with  their  watchfulness  in  out-generaling  all 
other  high  old  families  except  the  Stiltstalkings. 

While  Mrs.  Plornish  spoke  in  these  words  of  her  absent 
lord,  her  lord  returned.  A  smooth-cheeked,  fresh-colored, 
sandy-whiskered  man  of  thirty.  Long  in  the  legs,  yielding 
at  the  knees,  foolish  in  the  face,  flannel- jacketed,  lime-whit- 
ened. 

"  This  is  Plornish,  sir." 

'*  I  came,"  said  Clennam,  rising,  "  to  beg  the  favor  of  a 
little  conversation  with  you,  on  the  subject  of  the  Dorrit 
family." 

Plornish  became  suspicious,  seemed  to  scent  a  creditor. 
Said,  "  Ah.  Yes.  Well.  He  didn't  know  what  satisfaction 
he  could  give  any  gentleman  respecting  that  family.  What 
might  it  be  about,  now  ?  " 

"  I  know  you  better,"  said  Clennam,  smiling,  ^*  than  you 
suppose." 

Plornish    observed,  not    smiling     in  return,     And  yet  he 


144  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

hadn't  the  pleasure  of  being  acquainted  with  the  gentleman, 
neither. 

^*  No,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  know  of  your  kind  offices  at  second- 
hand, but  on  the  best  authority.  Through  Little  Dorrit. — I 
mean,"  he  explained,  "  Miss  Dorrit." 

*^Mr.  Clennam,  is  it  ?     Oh  !     I've  heard  of  you,  sir." 

"  And  I  of  you,"  said  Arthur. 

**  Please  to  sit  down  again,  sir,  and  consider  yourself  wel- 
come.— Why,  yes,"  said  Plornish,  taking  a  chair,  and  lifting 
the  elder  child  upon  his  knee,  that  he  might  have  the  moral 
support  of  speaking  to  a  stranger  over  his  head,  "  I  have  been 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  lock  myself,  and  in  that  way  we 
come  to  know  Miss  Dorrit.  Me  and  my  wife,  we  are  well 
acquainted  with  Miss  Dorrit." 

*'  Intimate  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Plornish.  Indeed,  she  was  so 
proud  of  the  acquaintance,  that  she  had  awakened  some  bit- 
terness of  spirit  in  the  yard,  by  magnifying  to  an  enormous 
amount  the  sum  for  which  Miss  Dorrit's  father  had  become 
insolvent.  The  Bleeding  Hearts  resented  her  claiming  to 
know  people  of  such  distinction. 

^'  It  was  her  father  that  I  got  acquainted  with  first.  And 
through  getting  acquainted  with  him,  you  see — why — I  got 
acquainted  with  her,"  said  Plornish,  tautologically. 

''  I  see." 

**  Ah  !  And  there's  manners  !  There's  polish  !  There's 
a  gentleman  to  have  run  to  seed  in  the  Marshalsea  Jail  ! 
Why,  perhaps  you  are  not  aware,"  said  Plornish,  lowering 
his  voice,  and  speaking  with  a  perverse  admiration  of 
what  he  ought  to  have  pitied  or  despised,  '^  not  aware  that 
Miss  Dorrit  and  her  sister  dursn't  let  him  know  that  they 
work  for  a  living.  No  !  "  said  Plornish,  looking  with  a  ridic- 
ulous triumph  first  at  his  wife,  and  then  all  round  the  room. 
**  Dursn't  let  him  know  it,  they  dursn't." 

*'  Without  admiring  him  for  that,"  Clennam  quietly  ob- 
served, ^' I  am  very  sorry  for  him."  The  remark  appeared 
to  suggest  to  Plornish,  for  the  first  time,  that  it  might  not  be 
a  very  fine  trait  of  character  after  all.  He  pondered  it  about 
for  a  moment,  and  gave  it  up. 

**  As  to  me,"  he  resumed,  '*  certainly  Mr.  Dorrit  is  as  af- 
fable with  me,  I  am  sure,  as  I  can  possibly  expect.  Consider- 
ing the  differences  and  distances  betwixt  us,  more  so.  But 
it's  Miss  Dorrit  that  we  were  speaking  of." 

"  True.  Pray  how  did  you  introduce  her  at  my 
mother's?" 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


145 


Mr.  Plornish  picked  a  bit  of  lime  out  of  his  whisker,  put  it 
between  his  lips,  turned  it  with  his  tongue  like  a  sugar-plum, 
considered,  found  himself  unequal  to  the  task  of  lucid  expla- 
nation, and  appealing  to  his  wife,  said,  "  Sally,  ^^^  may  as 
well  mention  how  it  was,  old  woman." 

"  Miss  Dorrit,"  sard  Sally,  hushing  the  baby  from  side  to 
side,  and  laying  her  chin  upon  the  little  hand  as  it  tried  to 
disarrange  the  gown  again,  '*  came  here  one  afternoon  with  a 
bit  of  writing,  telling  that  how  she  wished  for  needlework, 
and  asked  if  it  would  be  considered  any  ill-conwenience  in 
case  she  was  to  give  her  address  here."  (Plornish  repeated 
her  address  here,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  he  were  making  re- 
sponses at  church.)  "  Me  and  Plornish  says.  No,  Miss  Dor- 
rit, no  ill-conwenience,"  (Plornish  repeated,  no  ill-conwe- 
nience,) "  and  she  wrote  it  in,  according.  Which  then  me 
and  Plornish  says,  Ho,  Miss  Dorrit !  "  (Plornish  repeated. 
Ho,  Miss  Dorrit.)  '^  Have  you  thought  of  copying  it  three 
or  four  times,  as  the  way  to  make  it  known  in  more  places 
than  one  ?  No,  says  Miss  Dorrit,  I  have  not,  but  I  will.  She 
copied  it  out  according,  on  this  table,  in  a  sweet  writing, 
and  Plornish,  he  took  it  where  he  worked,  having  a  job  just 
then,"  (Plornish  repeated,  job  just  then,)  "  and  likewise  to 
the  landlord  of  the  yard  ;  through  which  it  was  that  Mrs. 
Clennam  first  happened  to  employ  Miss  Dorrit."  Plornish 
repeated,  employ  Miss  Dorrit  ;  and  Mrs.  Plornish  having 
come  to  an  end,  feigned  to  bite  the  fingers  of  the  little  hand 
as  she  kissed  it. 

*'  The    landlord    of   the    yard,"    said   Arthur    Clennam, 

"  is — '; 

*'  He  is  Mr.  Casby,  by  name,  he  is,"  said  Plornish,  "  and 
Prancks,  he  collects  the  rents.  That,"  added  Mr.  Plornish, 
dwelling  on  the  subject,  with  a  slow  thoughtfulness  that  ap- 
peared to  have  no  connection  with  any  specific  object,  and 
to  lead  him  nowhere,  "  that  is  about  what  fAey  are,  you  may 
believe  me  or  not,  as  you  think  proper." 

"  Ay  ?  "  returned  Clennam,  thoughtful  in  his  turn.  "  Mr. 
Casby,  too  !     An  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  long  ago  !  " 

Mr.  Plornish  did  not  see  his  road  to  any  comment  on  this 
fact,  and  made  none.  As  there  truly  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  have  the  least  interest  in  it,  Arthur  Clennam  went  on 
to  the  present  purport  of  his  visit;  namely,  to  make  Plornish 
the  instrument  of  effecting  Tip's  release,  with  as  little  det- 
riment as  possible  to  the  self-reliance  and  self-helpfulness  of 
the  young  man,  supposing  him  to  possess  any  remnant  of 


146  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

those  qualities:  without  doubt  a  very  wide  stretch  of  suppo- 
sition. Plornish,  having  been  made  acquainted  with  the 
cause  of  action  from  the  defendant's  own  mouth,  gave  Arthur 
to  understand  that  the  plaintiff  was  a  "  chaunter  " — mean- 
ing, not  a  singer  of  anthems,  but  a  seller  of  horses — and 
that  he  (Plornish)  considered  that  ten  shillings  in  the  pound 
''  would  settle  handsome,"  and  that  more  would  be  a  waste 
of  money.  The  principal  and  instrument  soon  drove  off  to- 
gether to  a  stable-yard  in  High  Holborn,  where  a  remark- 
ably fine  gray  gelding,  worth,  at  the  lowest  figure,  seventy- 
five  guineas  (not  taking  into  account  the  value  of  the  shot  he 
had  been  made  to  swallow,  for  the  improvement  of  his  form) 
was  to  be  parted  with  for  a  twenty-pound  note,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  having  run  away  last  week  with  Mrs.  Captain 
Barbary  of  Cheltenham,  who  wasn't  up  to  a  horse  of  his 
courage,  and  who,  in  mere  spite,  insisted  on  selling  him  for 
that  ridiculous  sum;  or,  in  other  words,  on  giving  him  away. 
Plornish,  going  up  this  yard  alone  and  leaving  his  principal 
outside,  found  a  gentleman  with  tight  drab  legs,  a  rather  old 
hat,  a  little  hooked  stick,  and  a  blue  neckerchief  (Captain 
Maroon  of  Gloucestershire,  a  private  friend  of  Captain  Bar- 
bary), who  happened  to  be  there,  in  a  friendly  way,  to  men- 
tion these  little  circumstances  concerning  the  remarkablj 
fine  gray  gelding,  to  any  real  judge  of  a  horse  and  quick 
snapper-up  of  a  good  thing,  who  might  look  in  at  that  address 
as  per  advertisement.  This  gentleman  happening  also  to  be 
the  plaintiff  in  the  Tip  case,  referred  Mr.  Plornish  to  his 
solicitor,  and  declined  to  treat  with  Mr.  Plornish,  or  even  to 
endure  his  presence  in  the  yard,  unless  he  appeared  there 
with  a  twenty-pound  note:  in  which  case  only,  the  gentleman 
would  augur  from  appearances  that  he  meant  business,  and 
might  be  induced  to  talk  to  him.  On  this  hint,  Mr.  Plornish 
retired  to  communicate  with  his  principal,  and  presently 
came  back  with  the  required  credentials.  Then  said  Cap- 
tain Maroon,  "  Now,  how  much  time  do  you  want  to  make 
up  the  other  twenty  in  ?  Now,  I'll  give  you  a  month."  Then 
said  Captain  Maroon,  when  that  wouldn't  suit,  **  Now,  I'll 
tell  what  I'll  do  with  you.  You  shall  get  me  a  good 
bill  at  four  months,  made  payable  at  a  banking- 
house,  for  the  other  twenty  !  *'  Then  said  Captain 
Maroon,  when  that  wouldn't  suit,  "  Now,  come  !  Here's  the 
last  I've  got  to  say  to  you.  You  shall  give  me  another  ten 
down,  and  I'll  run  my  pen  clean  through  it."  Then  said 
Captain  Maroon  when  /^^/  wouldn't  suit,  **  Now  I'll  tell  you 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  147 

what  it  is,  and  this  shuts  it  up;  he  has  used  me  bad,  but  I'll 
let  him  off  for  another  five  down  and  a  bottle  of  wine;  and  if 
you  mean  done,  say  done,  and  if  you  don't  like  it,  leave  it." 
Finally  said  Captain  Maroon,  when  that  wouldn't  suit  either, 
''  Hand  over,  then  !  " — And  in  consideration  of  the  first  offer 
gave  a  receipt  in  full  and  discharged  the  prisoner. 

"  Mr.  Plornish,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  trust  to  you,  if  you 
please,  to  keep  my  secret.  If  you  will  undertake  to  let  the 
young  man  know  that  he  is  free,  and  to  tell  him  that  you 
were  employed  to  compound  for  the  debt  by  some  one  whom 
you  are  not  at  liberty  to  name,  you  will  not  only  do  me  a  serv- 
ice, but  may  do  him  one,  and  his  sister  also." 

"  The  last  reason,  sir,"  said  Plornish,  **  would  be  quite 
sufificient.     Your  wishes  shall  be  attended  to." 

**  A  friend  has  obtained  his  discharge,  you  can  say,  if  you 
please.  A  friend  who  hopes  that  for  his  sister's  sake  if  for 
no  one  else's,  he  will  make  good  use  of  his  liberty." 

^*  Your  wishes,  sir,  shall  be  attended  to." 

"  And  if  you  will  be  so  good,  in  your  better  knowledge  of 
the  family,  as  to  communicate  freely  with  me,  and  to  point 
out  to  me  any  means  by  which  you  think  I  may  be  deli- 
cately and  really  useful  to  Little  Dorrit,  I  shall  feel  under  an 
obligation  to  you." 

"Don't  name  it,  sir,"  returned  Plornish,  *' it'll  be  ekally  a 
pleasure  and  a — it'll  be  ekally  a  pleasure  and  a — "  Finding 
himself  unable  to  balance  his  sentence  after  two  efforts,  Mr. 
Plornish  wisely  dropped  it.  He  took  Clennam's  card,  and 
appropriate  pecuniary  compliment. 

He  was  earnest  to  finish  his  commission  at  once,  and  his 
principal  was  in  the  same  mind.  So,  his  principal  offered  to 
set  him  down  at  the  Marshalsea  Gate,  and  they  drove  in  that 
direction  over  Blackfriars  Bridge.  On  the  way,  Arthur  elicited 
from  his- new  friend,  a  confused  summary  of  the  interior  life 
of  Bleeding  Heart  Yard.  They  was  all  hard  up  there,  Mr. 
Plornish  said,  uncommon  hard  up,  to  be  sure.  Well,  he 
couldn't  say  how  it  was  ;  he  didn't  know  as  any  body  could  say 
how  it  was  ;  all  he  know'd  was  that  so  it  was.  When  a  man 
felt,  on  his  own  back  and  in  his  own  belly,  that  he  was  poor, 
that  man  (Mr.  Plornish  gave  it  as  his  decided  belief)  know'd 
well  that  poor  he  was  somehow  or  another,  and  you  couldn't 
talk  it  out  of  him,  no  more  than  you  could  talk  beef  into  him. 
Then  you  see,  some  people  as  was  better  off  said,  and  a  good 
many  such  people  lived  pretty  close  up  to  the  mark  them- 
selves if  not  beyond  it  so  he'd  heerd,  that  they  was,  "improv- 


148  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ident  *'  (that  was  the  favorite  word)  down  the  yard.  For 
instance,  if  they  see  a  man  with  his  wife  and  children  going 
to  Hampton  Court  in  a  wan,  perhaps  once  in  a  year,  they 
says,  *'  Hallo  !  I  thought  you  was  poor,  my  improvident 
friend  !  "  Why,  Lord,  how  hard  it  was  upon  a  man  !  What 
was  a  man  to  do  ?  He  couldn't  go  mollancholly  mad,  and 
even  if  he  did,  you  wouldn't  be  the  better  for  it.  In  Mr. 
Plornish's  judgment  you  would  be  the  worse  for  it.  Yet 
you  seemed  to  want  to  make  a  man  mollancholly  mad.  You 
was  always  at  it  — if  not  with  your  right  hand,  with  your  left. 
What  was  they  a  doing  in  the  yard  ?  Why,  take  a  look  at 
'em  and  see.  There  was  the  girls  and  their  mothers  a  work- 
ing at  their  sewing,  or  their  shoe-binding,  or  their  trimming, 
or  their  waistcoat  making,  day  and  night  and  night  and  day, 
and  not  more  than  able  to  keep  body  and  soul  together  after 
all — often  not  so  much.  There  was  people  of  pretty  well 
all  sorts  of  trade  you  could  name,  all  wanting  to  work,  and 
yet  not  able  to  get  it.  There  was  old  people,  after  working 
all  their  lives,  going  and  being  s^ut  up  in  the  work-house, 
much  worse  fed  and  lodged  and  treated  altogether,  than — 
Mr.  Plornish  said  manufacturers,  but  appeared  to  mean 
malefactors.  Why,  a  man  didn't  know  where  to  turn  him- 
self, for  a  crumb  of  comfort.  As  to  who  was  to  blame  for 
it,  Mr.  Plornish  didn't  know  who  was  to  blame  for  it.  He 
could  tell  you  who  suffered,  but  he  couldn't  tell  you  whose 
fault  it  was.  It  wasn't  his  place  to  find  out,  and  who'd 
mind  what  he  said,  if  he  did  find  out  ?  He  only  know'd 
that  it  wasn't  put  right  by  them  what  undertook  that  line  of 
business,  and  that  it  didn't  come  right  of  itself.  And  in 
brief  his  illogical  opinion  was,  that  if  you  couldn't  do  nothing 
for  him,  you  had  better  take  nothing  from  him  for  doing  of 
it ;  so  far  as  he  could  make  out,  that  was  about  what  it  come 
to.  Thus,  in  a  prolix,  gently-growHng,  foolish  way,  did 
Plornish  turn  the  tangled  skein  of  his  estate  about  and 
about,  like  a  blind  man  who  was  trying  to  find  some  begin- 
ning or  end  to  it  ;  until  they  reached  the  prison  gate. 
There,  he  left  the  principal  alone  ;  to  wonder  as  he  rode 
away,  how  many  thousand  Plornishes  there  might  be  within 
a  day  or  two's  journey  of  the  circumlocution  office,  playing 
sundry  curious  variations  on  the  same  tune,  which  were  not 
known  by  ear  in  that  glorious  institution. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  149 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

PATRIARCHAL. 

The  mention  of  Mr.  Casby  again  revived,  in  Clennam*s 
memory,  the  smoldering  embers  of  curiosity  and  interest 
which  Mrs.  Flintwinch  had  fanned  on  the  night  of  his  arri- 
val. Flora  Casby  had  been  the  beloved  of  his  boyhood  ; 
and  Flora  was  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  wooden-headed 
old  Christopher  (so  he  was  still  occasionally  spoken  of  by 
some  irreverent  spirits  who  had  dealings  with  him,  and  in 
whom  familiarity  had  bred  its  proverbial  result  perhaps), 
who  was  reputed  to  be  rich  in  weekly  tenants,  and  to  get  a 
good  quantity  of  blood  out  of  the  stones  of  several  unprom- 
ising courts  and  alleys. 

After  some  days  of  inquiry  and  research,  Arthur  Clennam 
became  convinced  that  the  case  of  the  father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea  was  indeed  a  hopeless  one,  and  sorrowfully  resigned 
the  idea  of  helping  him  to  freedom  again.  He  had  no  hope- 
ful inquiry  to  make,  at  present,  concerning  Little  Dorrit 
either  ;  but  he  argued  with  himself  that  it  might,  for  any  thing 
he  knew,  it  might  be  serviceable  to  the  poor  child,  if  he  re- 
newed this  acquaintance.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add, 
that  beyond  all  doubt  he  would  have  presented  himself  at 
Mr.  Casby 's  door,  if  there  had  been  no  Little  Dorrit  in  ex- 
istence ;  for  we  all  know  how  we  all  deceive  ourselves — that 
is  to  say  how  people  in  general,  our  profound  selves  ex- 
cepted, deceive  themselves — as  to  motives  of  action. 

With  a  comfortable  impression  upon  him,  and  quite  an 
honest  one  in  its  way,  that  he  was  still  patronizing  Little  Dor- 
rit in  doing  what  had  no  reference  to  her,  he  found  himself 
one  afternoon  at  the  corner  of  Mr.  Casby's  street.  Mr.  Casby 
lived  in  a  street  in  the  Gray's  Inn  Road,  which  had  set  off 
from  that  thoroughfare  with  the  intention  of  running  at  one 
heat  down  into  the  valley,  and  up  again  to  the  top  of  Penton- 
ville  Hill;  but  which  had  run  itself  out  of  breath  in  twenty 
yards,  and  had  stood  still  ever  since.  There  is  no  such  place 
in  that  part  now;  but  it  remained  there  for  many  years,  look- 
ing with  a  balked  countenance  at  the  wilderness  patched 
with  unfruitful  gardens  and  pimpled  with  eruptive  summer- 
houses,  that  it  had  meant  to  run  over  in  no  time. 

'^  The  house,"  thought  Clennam,  as  he  crossed  to  the  door, 
"  is  as  little  changed  as  my  mother's,  and  looks  almost  as 


150  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

gloomy.  But  the  likeness  ends  outside.  I  know  its  staid 
repose  within.  The  smell  of  its  jars  of  old  rose-leaves  and 
lavender  seems  to  come  upon  me  even  here." 

When  his  knock  at  the  bright  brass  knocker  of  obsolete 
shape,  brought  a  woman-servant  to  the  door,  those  faded 
scents  in  truth  saluted  him  like  wintry  breath  that  had  a 
faint  remembrance  in  it  of  the  by-gone  spring.  He  stepped 
into  the  sober,  silent,  air-tight  house — one  might  have  fancied 
it  to  have  been  stifled  by  mutes  in  the  Eastern  manner — and 
the  door  closing  again,  seemed  to  shut  out  sound  and  motion. 
The  furniture  was  formal,  grave,  and  Quaker-like,  but  well- 
kept  ;  and  had  as  prepossessing  an  aspect  as  any  thing,  from 
a  human  creature  to  a  wooden  stool,  that  is  meant  for  much 
use,  and  is  preserved  for  little,  can  ever  wear.  There  was  a 
grave  clock,  ticking  somewhere  up  the  staircase  ;  and  there 
was  a  songless  bird  in  the  same  direction,  pecking  at  his 
cage,  as  if  he  were  ticking  too.  The  parlor-fire  ticked  in 
the  grate.  There  was  only  one  person  on  the  parlor-hearth, 
and  the  loud  watch  in  his  pocket  ticked  audibly. 

The  servant-maid  had  ticked  the  two  words,  "  Mr.  Clen- 
nam  "  so  softly  that  she  had  not  been  heard;  and  he  conse- 
quently stood,  within  the  door  she  had  closed,  unnoticed. 
The  figure  of  a  man  advanced  in  life,  whose  smooth  gray 
eye-brows  seemed  to  move  to  the  ticking  as  the  fire-light 
flickered  on  them,  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his  list  shoes  on 
the  rug,  and  his  thumbs  slowly  revolving  over  one  another. 
This  was  old  Christopher  Casby — recognizable  at  a  glance 
— as  unchanged  in  twenty  years  and  upward,  as  his  own  solid 
furniture — as  little  touched  by  the  influence  of  the  varying 
seasons,  as  the  old  rose-leaves  and  old  lavendjer  in  his  por- 
celain jars. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  man,  in  this  troublesome  world, 
so  troublesome  for  the  imagination  to  picture,  as  a  boy.  And 
yet  he  had  changed  very  little  in  his  progress  through  life. 
Confronting  him,  in  the  room  in  which  he  sat,  was  a  boy's 
portrait,  which  any  body  seeing  him  would  have  identified  as 
Master  Christopher  Casby,  aged  ten:  though  disguised  with 
a  haymaking  rake,  for  which  he  had  had,  at  any  time,  as 
much  taste  or  use  for  as  a  diving  bell;  and  sitting  (on  one  of 
his  own  legs)  upon  a  bank  of  violets,  moved  to  precocious 
contemplation  by  the  spire  of  a  village  church.  There  was 
the  same  smooth  face  and  forehead,  the  same  calm  blue  eye, 
the  same  placid  air.  The  shining  bald  head,  which  looked 
so  very  large  because  it  shone  so  much  ;  and  the  long  gray 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  151 

hair  at  its  sides  and  back,  like  floss  silk  or  spun  glass,  which 
looked  so  very  benevolent  because  it  was  never  cut  ;  were 
not,  of  course,  to  be  seen  in  the  boy  as  in  the  old  man. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  seraphic  creature  with  the  haymaking 
rake,  were  clearly  to  be  discerned  the  rudiments  of  the 
patriarch  with  the  list  shoes. 

Patriarch  was  the  name  which  many  people  delighted  to 
give  him.  Various  old  ladies  in  the  neighborhood  spoke  of 
him  as  The  Last  of  the  Patriarchs.  So  gray,  so  slow,  so 
quiet,  so  impassionate,  so  very  bumpy  in  the  head,  patriarch 
was  the  word  for  him.  He  had  been  accosted  in  the  streets, 
and  respectfully  solicited  to  become  a  patriarch  for  painters 
and  for  sculptors  ;  with  so  much  importunity,  in  sooth,  that 
it  would  appear  to  be  beyond  the  fine  arts  to  remember  the 
points  of  a  patriarch,  or  to  invent  one.  Philanthropists  of 
both  sexes  had  asked  who  he  was,  and  on  being  informed, 
"  Old  Christopher  Casby,  formerly  Towm-agent  to  Lord 
Decimus  Tite  Barnacle,"  had  cried  in  a  rapture  of  disap- 
pointment, *' Oh  !  why,  with  that  head,  is  he  not  a  benefactor 
to  his  species  !  Oh  !  why,  with  that  head,  is  he  not  a  father  to 
the  orphan,  and  a  friend  to  the  friendless  !"  With  that  head, 
however,  he  remained  old  Christopher  Casby,  proclaimed  by 
common  report  rich  in  house  property  ;  and  with  that  head, 
he  now  sat  in  his  silent  parlor.  Indeed,  it  would  be  the 
height  of  unreason  to  expect  him  to  be  sitting  there  Avithout 
that  head. 

Arthur  Clennam  moved  to  attract  his  attention,  and  the 
gray  eyebrows  turned  toward  him. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Clennam,  "  I  fear  you  did  not 
hear  me  announced  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  I  did  not.     Did  you  wish  to  see  me,  sir  ?" 

**  I  wished  to  pay  my  respects." 

Mr.  Casby  seemed  a  feather's  weight  disappointed  by  the 
last  words,  having  perhaps  prepared  himself  for  the  visitor's 
wishing  to  pay  something  else.  **  Have  I  the  pleasure,  sir," 
he  proceeded — "  take  a  chair,  if  you  please— have  I  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing — ?  Ah  !  truly,  yes,  I  think  I  have  !  I  be- 
lieve I  am  not  mistaken  in  supposing  that  I  am  acquainted 
with  those  features  ?  I  think  I  address  a  gentleman  of  whose 
return  to  this  country  I  was  informed  by  Mr.  Flintwinch  ?" 

"  That  is  your  present  visitor." 

"  Really  !     Mr.  Clennam  ?  " 

"No  other,  Mr.  Casby." 

'*  Mr.  Clennam,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  How  have  you 
been  since  we  met  ?  " 


152  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Without  thinking  it  worth  while  to  explain  that  in  the 
course  of  some  quarter  of  a  century,  he  had  experienced  oc- 
casional slight  fluctuations  in  his  health  and  spirits,  Clen- 
nam  answered  generally  that  he  had  never  been  better,  or 
something  equally  to  the  purpose  ;  and  shook  hands  with  the 
possessor  of  ^*  that  head  "  as  it  shed  its  patriarchal  light 
upon  him. 

"  We  are  older,  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  Christopher  Casby. 

"  We  are — not  younger,"  said  Clennam.  After  this  wise 
remark  he  felt  that  he  was  scarcely  shining  with  brilliancy, 
and  became  aware  that  he  was  nervous. 

**  And  your  respected  father,"  said  Mr.  Casby,  *'is  no 
more  !  I  was  grieved  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Clennam,  I  was 
grieved." 

Arthur  replied  in  the  usual  way  that  he  felt  infinitely 
obliged  to  him. 

^'  There  was  a  time,"  said  Mr.  Casby,  "  when  your  parents 
and  myself  were  not  on  friendly  terms.  There  was  a  little 
family  misunderstanding  among  us.  Your  respected  mother 
was  rather  jealous  of  her  son,  maybe  ;  when  I  say  her  son, 
I  mean  your  worthy  self,  your  worthy  self." 

His  smooth  face  had  a  bloom  upon  it,  like  ripe  wall-fruit. 
What  with  his  blooming  face,  and  that  head,  and  his  blue 
eyes,  he  seemed  to  be  delivering  sentiments  of  rare  wisdom 
and  virtue.  In  like  manner,  his  physiognomical  expression 
seemed  to  teem  with  benignity.  Nobody  could  have  said 
where  the  wisdom  was,  or  where  the  virtue  was,  or  where  the 
benignity  was  ;  but  they  all  seemed  to  be  somewhere  about 
him. 

*'  Those  times,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Casby,  "  are  past 
and  gone,  past  and  gone.  I  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  mak- 
ing a  visit  to  your  respected  mother  occasionally,  and  of 
admiring  the  fortitude  and  strength  of  mind  with  which  she 
bears  her  trials,  bears  her  trials." 

When  he  made  one  of  these  little  repetitions  sitting  with 
his  hands  crossed  before  him,  he  did  it  with  his  head  on  one 
side,  and  a  gentle  smile,  as  if  he  had  something  in  his 
thoughts,  too  sweetly  profound  to  be  put  into  words.  As  if 
he  denied  himself  the  pleasure  of  uttering  it,  lest  he  should 
soar  too  high  ;  and  his  meekness  therefor  preferred  to  be 
unmeaning. 

**  I  have  heard  that  you  were  kind  enough  on  one  of  those 
occasions,"  said  Arthur,  catching  at  the  opportunity  as  it 
drifted  past  him,  **  to  mention  Little   Dorrit  to  my  mother" 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


153 


"  Little — ?  Dorrit  ?  That's  the  seamstress  who  was  men- 
tioned to  me  by  a  small  tenant  of  mine  ?  Yes,  yes.  Dorrit  ? 
That's  the  name.  Ah,  yes,  yes  !  You  call  her  Little 
Dorrit  ? " 

No  road  in  that  direction.  Nothing  came  of  the  cross- 
cut.    It  led  no  further. 

"  My  daughter  Flora/'  said  Mr.  Casby,  "as  you  may  have 
heard  probably,  Mr.  Clennam,  was  married  and  established 
in  life,  several  years  ago.  She  had  the  misfortune  to  lose 
her  husband  when  she  had  been  married  a  few  months.  She 
resides  with  me  again.  She  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  let  her  know  that  you  are  here." 

*'  By  all  means,"  returned  Clennam.  "  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred the  request,  if  your  kindness  had  not  anticipated  me." 

Upon  this  Mr.  Casby  rose  up  in  his  list  shoes,  and  with  a 
slow,  heavy  step  (he  was  of  an  elephantine  build),  made  for 
the  door.  He  had  a  long  wide-skirted  bottle-green  coat  on, 
and  a  bottle-green  pair  of  trowsers,  and  a  bottle-green  waist- 
coat. The  patriarchs  were  not  dressed  in  bottle-green 
broadcloth,  and  yet  his  clothes  looked  patriarchal. 

He  had  scarcely  left  the  room,  and  allowed  the  ticking  to 
become  audible  again,  when  a  quick  hand  turned  a  latch-key 
in  the  house-door,  opened  it,  and  shut  it.  Immediately 
afterward,  a  quick  and  eager  short  dark  man  came  into  the 
room  with  so  much  way  lipon  him,  that  he  was  within  a  foot 
of  Clennam  before  he  could  stop. 

''Halloa!"  he  said. 

Clennam  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  say  "  Halloa  !  " 
too. 

''What's  the  matter?"  said  the  short  dark  man. 

"  I  haven't  heard  that  any  thing  was  the  matter,"  returned 
Clennam. 

"  Where's  Mr.  Casby  ?  "  asked  the  short  dark  man  look- 
ing about. 

"  He  will  be  here  directly,  if  you  want  him." 

"  /  want  him  ?  "  said  the  short  dark  man.     "  Don't  you  ?  " 

This  elicited  a  word  or  two  of  explanation  from  Clennam, 
during  the  delivery  of  which  the  short  dark  man  held  his 
breath  and  looked  at  him.  He  was  dressed  in  black  and 
rusty  iron-gray  ;  had  jet  black  beads  of  eyes  ;  a  scrubby 
little  black  chin  ;  wiry  black  hair  striking  out  from  his  head 
in  prongs,  like  forks  or  hair-pins  ;  and  a  complexion  that 
was  very  dingy  by  nature,  or  very  dirty  by  art,  or  a  com- 
pound of  nature  and  art.     He  had   dirty  hands  and  dirty 


154  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

broken  nails,  and  looked  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  coals  ;  he 
was  in  a  perspiration,  and  snorted  and  sniffed  and  puffed 
and  blew,  like  a  little  laboring  steam  engine. 

^^  Oh  !  "  said  he,  when  Arthur  had  told  him  how  he  came 
to  be  there.  "  Very  well.  That's  right.  If  he  should  ask 
for  Pancks,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  say  that  Pancks  is 
come  in  ?  "  And  so,  with  a  snort  and  a  puff,  he  worked  out 
by  another  door. 

Now,  in  the  old  days  at  home,  certain  audacious  doubts 
respecting  the  last  of  the  patriarchs,  which  were  afloat  in 
the  air,  had,  by  some  forgotten  means,  come  in  contact  with 
Arthur's  sensorium.  He  was  aware  of  motes  and  specks  of 
suspicion,  in  the  atmospnere  of  that  time  ;  seen  through 
which  medium,  Christopher  Casby  was  a  mere  inn  sign-post 
without  any  inn — an  invitation  to  rest  and  be  thankful,  when 
there  was  no  place  to  put  up  at,  and  nothing  whatever  to  be 
thankful  for.  He  knew  that  some  of  these  specks  even 
represented  Christopher  as  capable  of  harboring  designs  in 
"  that  head,"  and  as  being  a  crafty  impostor.  Other  motes 
there  were  which  showed  him  as  a  heavy,  selfish,  drifting 
booby,  who,  having  stumbled,  in  the  course  of  his  unwieldy 
jostlings  against  other  men,  on  the  discovery  that  to  get 
through  life  with  ease  and  credit,  he  had  but  to  hold  his 
tongue,  keep  the  bald  part  of  his  head  well  polished,  and 
leave  his  hair  alone,  had  had  just  cunning  enough  to  seize 
the  idea  and  stick  to  it.  It  was  said  that  his  being  town- 
agent  to  Lord  Decimus  Tite  Barnacle  was  referable,  not  to 
his  having  the  least  business  capacity,  but  to  his  looking  so 
supremely  benignant  that  nobody  could  suppose  the  property 
screwed  or  jobbed  under  such  a  man  ;  also,  that  for  similar 
reasons  he  now  got  more  money  out  of  his  own  wretched 
lettings,  unquestioned,  than  any  body  with  a  less  knobby  and 
less  shining  crown  could  possibly  have  done.  In  a  word,  it 
was  represented  (Clennam  called  to  mind,  alone  in  the  tick- 
ing parlor)  that  many  people  select  their  models,  much  as 
the  painters,  just  now  mentioned,  select  theirs  ;  and  that 
whereas  in  the  Royal  Academy  some  evil. old  ruffian  of  a 
dog-stealer  will  annually  be  found  embodying  all  the  car- 
dinal virtues,  on  account  of  his  eyelashes,  or  his  chin,  or  his 
legs  (thereby  planting  thorns  of  confusion  in  the  breasts  of 
the  more  observant  students  of  nature),  so,  in  the  great 
social  exhibition,  accessories  are  often  accepted  in  lieu  of  the 
internal  character. 

Calling  these  things  to  mind,   and  ranging  Mr.  Pancks  in 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  155 

a  row  with  them,  Arthur  Clennam  leaned  this  day  to  the 
opinion  without  quite  deciding  on  it,  that  the  last  of  the 
patriarchs  was  the  drifting  booby  aforesaid,  with  the  one 
idea  of  keeping  the  bald  part  of  his  head  highly  polished  : 
and  that,  much  as  an  unwieldy  ship  in  the  Thames  River 
may  sometimes  be  seen  heavily  driving  with  the  tide,  broad- 
side on,  stern  first,  in  its  own  way  and  in  the  way  of  every- 
thing else,  though  making  a  great  show  of  navigation,  when 
all  of  a  sudden,  a  little  coaly  steam-tug  will  bear  down  upon 
it,  take  it  in  tow,  and  bustle  off  with  it  ;  similarly  the  cum- 
brous patriarch  had  been  taken  in  tow  by  the  snorting 
Pancks,  and  was  now  following  in  the  wake  of  that  dingy 
little  craft. 

The  return  of  Mr.  Casby,  with  his  daughter  Flora,  put  an 
end  to  these  meditations.  Clennam's  eyes  no  sooner  fell 
upon  the  subject  of  his  old  passion,  than  it  shivered  and 
broke  to  pieces. 

Most  men  will  be  found  sufficiently  true  to  themselves  to 
be  true  to  an  old  idea.  It  is  no  proof  of  an  inconstant  mind, 
but  exactly  the  opposite,  when  the  idea  will  not  bear  close 
comparison  with  the  reality,  and  the  contrast  is  a  fatal  shock 
to  it.  Such  was  Clennam's  case.  In  his  youth  he  had  ardently 
loved  this  woman,  and  had  heaped  upon  her  all  the  locked-up 
wealth  of  his  affection  and  imagination.  That  wealth  had 
been,  in  his  desert  home,  like  Robinson  Crusoe's  money;  ex- 
changeable with  no  one,  lying  idle  in  the  dark  to  rust,  until 
he  poured  it  out  for  her.  Evi^r  since  that  memorable  time, 
though  he  had,  until  the  night  of  his  arrival,  as  completely 
dismissed  her  from  any  association  with  his  present  or  future 
as  if  she  had  been  dead  (which  she  might  easily  have  been 
for  any  thing  he  knew),  he  had  kept  the  old  fancy  of  the  past 
unchanged,  in  its  old  sacred  place.  And  now,  after  all,  the 
last  of  the  patriarchs  coolly  walked  into  the  parlor,  saying 
in  effect,  '^  Be  good  enough  to  throw  it  down  and  dance  upon 
it.     This  is  Flora." 

Flora,  always  tall,  had  grown  to  be  very  broad  too,  and 
short  of  breath  ;  but  that  was  not  much.  Flora,  whom  he 
had  left  a  lily,  had  become  a  peony  ;  but  that  was  not  much. 
Flora,  who  had  seemed  enchanting  in  all  she  said  and 
thought,  was  diffuse  and  silly.  That  was  much.  Flora,  who 
had  been  spoiled  and  artless  long  ago,  was  determined  to  be 
spoiled  and  artless  now.     That  was  a  fatal  blow. 

This  is  Flora  ! 

''  I  am  sure/'  giggled  Flora,  tossing  her  head  with  a  cari- 


156  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

cature  of  her  girlish  manner,  such  as  a  mummer  might  have 
presented  at  her  own  funeral,  if  she  had  lived  and  died  in 
classical  antiquity,  "  I  am  ashamed  to  see  Mr.  Clennam,  I  am 
a  mere  fright,  I  know  he'll  find  me  fearfully  changed,  I  am 
actually  an  old  woman,  it's  shocking  to  be  so  found  out,  it's 
really  shocking  ! " 

He  assured  her  that  she  was  just  what  he  had  expected, 
and  that  time  had  not  stood  still  with  himself. 

^'  Oh  !  but  with  a  gentleman  it's  so  different  and  really  you 
look  so  amazingly  well  that  you  have  no  right  to  say  any  thing 
of  the  kind,  while,  as  to  me  you  know — oh  !  "  cried  Flora 
with  a  little  scream,  ^*  I  am  dreadful  !  " 

The  patriarch,  apparently  not  yet  understanding  his  own 
part  in  the  drama  under  representation,  glowed  with  vacant 
serenity. 

^'  But  if  we  talk  of  not  having  changed,"  said  Flora,  who, 
whatever  she  said,  never  once  came  to  a  full  stop,  ''  look  at 
papa,  is  not  papa  precisely  what  he  was  when  you  went  away, 
isn't  it  cruel  and  unnatural  of  papa  to  be  such  a  reproach  to 
his  own  child,  if  we  go  on  in  this  way  much  longer  people 
who  don't  know  us  will  begin  to  suppose  that  I  am  papa's 
mamma  !  " 

That  must  be  a  long  time  hence,  Arthur  considered. 

"  Oh  Mr.  Clennam  you  insincerest  of  creatures,"  said  Flora, 
**  I  perceive  already  you  have  not  lost  your  old  way  of  pay- 
ing compliments,  your  old  way  when  you  used  to  pretend  to 
be  so  sentimentally  struck  you  know — at  least  I  don't  mean 
that,  I — oh  I  don't  know  what  I  mean  !  "  Here  Flora  tit- 
tered confusedly,  and  gave  him  one  of  her  old  glances. 

The  patriarch,  as  if  he  now  began  to  perceive  that  his 
part  in  the  piece  was  to  get  off  the  stage  as  soon  as  might 
be,  rose  and  went  to  the  door  by  which  Pancks  had  worked 
out,  hailing  that  tug  by  name.  He  received  an  answer  from 
some  little  dock  beyond,  and  was  towed  out  of  sight  directly. 

*^  You  mustn't  think  of  going  yet,"  said  Flora — Arthur  had 
looked  at  his  hat,  being  in  a  ludicrous  dismay,  and  not 
knowing  what  to  do  :  *'  you  could  never  be  so  unkind  as  to 
think  of  going,  Arthur — I  mean  Mr.  Arthur — or  I  suppose 
Mr.  Clennam  would  be  far  more  proper — but  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  I'm  saying — without  a  word  about  the  dear 
old  days  gone  forever,  however  when  I  come  to  think  of  it 
I  dare  say  it  would  be  much  better  not  to  speak  of  them  and 
it's  highly  probable  that  you  have  some  much  more  agreea- 
ble engagement  and  pray  let  me  be  the  last  person  in  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


157 


world  to  interfere  with  it  though  there  was  a  time,  bUt  I  am 
running  into  nonsense  again." 

Was  it  possible  that  Flora  could  have  been  such  a  chat- 
terer, in  the  days  she  referred  to  ?  Could  there  have  been 
any  thing  like  her  present  disjointed  volubility,  in  the  fasci- 
nations that  had  captivated  him  ? 

"  Indeed  I  have  little  doubt,"  said  Flora,  running  on  with 
astonishing  speed,  and  pointing  her  conversation  with 
nothing  but  commas,  and  very  few  of  them,  "that  you  are 
married  to  some  Chinese  lady,  being  in  China  so  long  and 
being  in  business  and  naturally  desirous  to  settle  and  extend 
your  connection  nothing  was  more  likely  than  that  you  should 
propose  to  a  Chinese  lady  and  nothing  was  more  natural  I  am 
sure  than  that  the  Chinese  lady  should  accept  you  and  think 
herself  very  well  off  too,  I  only  hope  she  is  not  a  Pagodian 
dissenter." 

"  I  am  not,"  returned  Arthur,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself, 
"married  to  any  lady,  Flora." 

"  Oh  good  gracious  me  I  hope  you  never  kept  yourself  a 
bachelor  so  long  on  my  account  !  "  tittered  Flora  ;  "  but  of 
course  you  never  did  why  should  you,  pray  don't  answer,  I 
don't  know  where  I'm  running  to,  oh  do  tell  me  something 
about  the  Chinese  ladies  whether  their  eyes  are  really  so 
long  and  narrow  always  putting  me  in  mind  of  mother-of- 
pearl  fish  at  cards  and  do  they  really  wear  tails  down  their 
back  and  plaited  too  or  is  it  only  the  men,  and  when  they 
pull  their  hair  so  very  tight  off  their  foreheads  don't  they 
hurt  themselves,  and  why  do  they  stick  little  bells  all  over 
their  bridges  and  temples  and  hats  and  things  or  don't  they 
really  do  it  !  "  Flora  gave  him  another  of  her  old  glances. 
Instantly  she  went  on  again,  as  if  he  had  spoken  in  reply  for 
some  time. 

"Then  it's  all  true  and  they  really  do!  good  gracious 
Arthur! — pray  excuse — old  habit — Mr.  Clennam  far  more 
proper — what  a  country  to  live  in  for  so  long  a  time,  and  with 
so  many  lanterns  and  umbrellas  too  how  very  dark  and  wet 
the  climate  ought  to  be  and  no  doubt  actually  is,  and  the 
sums  of  money  that  must  be  made  by  those  two  trades  where 
every  body  carries  them  and  hangs  them  everywhere,  the 
little  shoes  too  and  the  feet  screwed  back  in  infancy  is  quite 
surprising,  what  a  traveler  you  are!  " 

In  his  ridiculous  distress,  Clennam  received  another  of 
the  old  glances,  without  in  the  least  knowing  what  to  do 
with  it. 


158  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

^*  Dear  dear,"  said  Flora,  *'  only  think  of  the  changes  a/ 
home  Arthur — can  not  overcome  it,  seems  so  natural,  Mi. 
Clennam  far  more  proper — since  you  became  familiar  with 
the  Chinese  customs  and  language  which  I  am  persuaded 
you  speak  like  a  native  if  not  better  for  you  were  always 
quick  and  clever  though  immensely  difficult  no  doubt,  I  am^ 
sure  the  tea  chest  alone  would  kill  7ne  if  I  tried,  such  changes 
Arthur — I  am  doing  it  again,  seems  so  natural,  most  improper 
— as  no  one  could  have  believed,  who  could  have  ever 
imagined  Mrs.  Finching  when  I  can't  imagine  it  myself!  " 

*'  Is  that  your  married  name  ?  "  asked  Arthur,  struck,  in 
the  midst  of  all  this,  by  a  certain  warmth  of  heart  that 
expressed  itself  in  her  tone  when  she  referred,  however  oddly, 
to  the  youthful  relation  in  which  they  had  stood  to  one 
another.     '^  Finching  !  " 

"'  Finching  oh  yes  isn't  it  a  dreadful  name,  but  as  Mr.  F. 
said  when  he  proposed  to  me- which  he  did  seven  times  and 
handsomely  consented  I  must  say  to  be  what  he  used  to  call 
on  liking  twelve  months  after  all,  he  wasn't  answerable  for  it 
and  couldn't  help  it  could  he,  excellent  man,  not  at  all  like 
you  but  excellent  man!  " 

Flora  had  at  last  talked  herself  out  of  breath  for  one 
moment.  One  moment;  for  she  recovered  breath  in  the  act 
of  raising  a  minute  corner  of  her  pocket  handerchief  to  her 
eye,  as  a  tribute  to  the  ghost  of  the  departed  Mr.  F.,  and 
began  again. 

"  No  one  could  dispute,  Arthur — Mr.  Clennam — that  it's 
quite  right  you  should  be  formally  friendly  to  me  under  the 
altered  circumstances  and  indeed  you  couldn't  be  any  thing 
else,  at  least  I  suppose  not  you  ought  to  know,  but  I  can't 
help  recalling  that  there  was  a  time  when  things  were  very 
different." 

**  My  dear  Mrs.  Finching,"  Arthur  began,  struck  by  the 
good  tone  again. 

**  Oh  not  that  nasty,  ugly  name,  say  Flora  ! " 

"  Flora.  I  assure  you.  Flora,  I  am  happy  in  seeing  you 
once  more,  and  in  finding  that,  like  me,  you  have  not  for- 
gotten the  old  foolish  dreams,  when  we  saw  all  before  us  in 
the  light  of  our  youth  and  hope." 

**  You  don't  seem  so,"  pouted  Flora,  "you  take  it  very 
coolly,  but  however  I  know  you  are  disappointed  in  me,  I 
suppose  the  Chinese  ladies — mandarinesses  if  you  call  them 
so — are  the  cause  or  perhaps  I  am  the  cause  myself,  it's  just 
as  likely." 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


159 


"No,  no,"  Clennam  entreated,  "don't  say  that." 

**  Oh  I  must  you  know,"  said  Flora,  in  a  positive  tone, 
"  what  nonsense  not  to,  1  know  I  am  not  what  you  expected, 
I  know  that  very  well." 

In  the  midst  of  her  rapidity,  she  had  found  that  out  with 
the  quick  perception  of  a  clever  woman.  The  inconsistent 
and  profoundly  unreasonable  way  in  which  she  instantly 
went  on,  nevertheless,  to  interweave  their  long-abandoned  boy 
and  girl  relations  with  their  present  interview,  made  Clennam 
feel  as  if  he  were  lightheaded. 

"  One  remark,"  said  Flora,  giving  their  conversation,  with- 
out the  slightest  notice  and  to  the  great  terror  of  Clennam, 
the  tone  of  a  love-quarrel,  ^'  I  wish  to  make,  one  explanation 
I  wish  to  offer,  when  your  mamma  came  and  made  a  scene 
of  it  with  my  papa  and  when  I  was  called  down  into  the  little 
breakfast-room  where  they  were  looking  at  one  another  with 
your  mamma's  parasol  between  them  seated  on  two  chairs  like 
mad  bulls  what  was  I  to  do  ?  " 

*'  My  dear  Mrs.  Finching,"  urged  Clennam — "  all  so  long 

ago  and  so  long  concluded,  is  it  worth  while  seriously  to " 

■  "  I  can't  Arthur,"  returned  Flora,  "  be  de-nounced  as 
heartless  by  the  whole  society  of  China  without  setting  myself 
right  when  I  have  the  opportunity  of  doing  so,  and  you  must 
be  very  well  aware  that  there  was  Paul  and  Virginia  which 
had  to  be  returned  and  which  was  returned  without  note  or 
comment,  not  that  I  mean  to  say  you  could  have  written  to 
me  watched  as  I  was  but  if  it  had  only  come  back  with  a  red 
wafer  on  the  cover  I  should  have  known  that  it  meant  come 
to  Pekin  Nankeen  and  what's  the  third  place  barefoot." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Finching,  you  were  not  to  blame,  and  I 
never  blamed  you?  We  were  both  too  young,  too  dependent 
and  helpless,  to  do  any  thing  but  accept  our  situation. — 
Pray  think  how  long  ago,"  gently  remonstrated  Arthur. 

"  One  more  remark,"  proceeded  Flora  with  unslackened 
volubility,  '*  I  wish  to  make,  one  more  explanation  I  wish  to 
offer,  for  five  days  I  had  a  cold  in  the  head  from  crying 
which  I  passed  entirely  in  the  back  drawnig-room — there  is 
the  back  drawing-room  still  on  the  first  floor  and  still  at  the 
back  of  the  house  to  confirm  my  words — when  that  dreary 
)eriod  had  passed  a  lull  succeeded  years  rol'ed  on  and  Mr. 
-'\  became  acquainted  with  us  at  a  mutual  friend's,  he  was 
ctil  attention  he  called  next  day  he  soon  began  to  call  three 
evenings  a  week  and  to  send  in  little  things  for  supper,  it 
was  not  love  on  Mr.  F's.  part  it  was  adoration,  Mr.   F.  pro- 


i6o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

posed  with  the  full  approval  of  papa  and  what  could  I 
do?" 

*'  Nothing  whatever,"  said  Arthur,  with  the  cheerfulest 
readiness,  "  but  what  you  did.  Let  an  old  friend  assure  you 
of  his  full  conviction  that  you  did  quite  right." 

"  One  last  remark,"  proceeded  Flora,  rejecting  common- 
place life  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  ''  I  wish  to  make,  one 
last  explanation  I  wish  to  offer,  there  was  a  time  ere  Mr.  F. 
first  paid  attentions  incapable  of  being  mistaken,  but  that  is 
past  and  was  not  to  be,  dear  Mr.  Clennam  you  no  longer 
wear  a  golden  chain  you  are  free  I  trust  you  may  be  happy, 
here  is  papa  who  is  always  tiresome  and  putting  in  his  nose 
everywhere  where,  he  is  not  wanted." 

With  these  words,  and  with  a  hasty  gesture  fraught  with 
timid  caution — such  a  gesture  had  Clennam's  eyes  been 
familiar  with  in  the  old  time — poor  Flora  left  herself,  at 
eighteen  years  of  age,  a  long  long  way  behind  again  ;  and 
came  to  a  full  stop  at  last. 

Or  rather,  she  left  about  half  of  herself  at  eighteen  years 
of  age  behind,  and  grafted  the  rest  on  to  the  relict  of  the 
late  Mr.  F.;  thus  making  a  moral  mermaid  of  herself,  which 
her  once  boy-lover  contemplated  with  feelings  wherein  his 
sense  of  the  sorrowful  and  his  sense  of  the  comical  were 
curiously  blended. 

For  example.  As  if  there  were  a  secret  understanding 
between  herself  and  Clennam  of  the  most  thrilling  nature  ; 
as  if  the  first  of  a  train  of  post-chaises  and  four,  extending 
all  the  way  to  Scotland,  were  at  that  moment  round  the 
corner  ;  and  as  if  she  couldn't  (and  wouldn't)  have  walked 
into  the  parish  church  with  him,  under  the  shade  of 
the  family  umbrella,  with  the  patriarchal  blessing  on  her 
head,  and  the  perfect  concurrence  of  all  mankind  ;  Flora 
comforted  her  soul  with  agonies  of  mysterious  signaling, 
expressing  dread  of  discovery.  With  the  sensation  of 
becoming  more  and  more  lightheaded  every  minute,  Clennam 
saw  the  relict  of  the  late  Mr.  F.  enjoying  herself  in  the  most 
wonderful  manner,  by  putting  herself  and  him  in  their  old 
places,  and  going  through  all  the  old  performances — now, 
when  the  stage  was  dusty,  when  the  scenery  was  faded,  when 
the  youthful  actors  were  dead,  when  the  orchestra  was 
empty,  when  the  lights  were  out.  And  still,  through  all 
this  grotesque  revival  of  what  he  remembered  as  having 
once  been  prettily  natural  to  her,  he  could  not  but  feel  that 
it  revived  at  sight  of  him,  and  that  there  was  a  tender 
memory  in  it. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  i6t 

The  patriarch  insisted  on  his  staying  to  dinner,  and  Flora 
signaled  ^'  Yes  !  "  Clennam  so  wished  he  could  have  done 
more  than  stay  to  dinner — so  heartily  wished  he  could  have 
found  the  Flora  that  had  been,  or  that  never  had  been — 
that  he  thought  the  least  atonement  he  could  make  for  the 
disappointment  he  almost  felt  ashamed  of,  was  to  give  him- 
self up  to  the  family  desire.     Therefore,  he  staid  to  dinner. 

Pancks  dined  with  them.  Pancks  steamed  out  of  his 
little  dock  at  a  quarter  before  six,  and  bore  straight  down 
for  the  patriarch,  who  happened  to  be  then  driving,  in  an 
insane  manner,  through  a  stagnant  account  of  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard.  Pancks  instantly  made  fast  to  him  and  hauled 
him  out. 

"  Bleeding  Heart  Yard  ?  "  said  Pancks,  with  a  puff  and  a 
snort.  "  It's  a  troublesome  property.  Don't  pay  you  badly, 
but  rents  are  very  hard  to  get  there.  You  have  more 
trouble  with  that  one  place,  than  with  all  the  places  belong- 
ing to  you." 

Just  as  the  big  ship  in  tow  gets  the  credit,  with  most 
spectators,  of  being  the  powerful  object,  so  the  patriarch 
usually  seemed  to  have  said  himself  whatever  Pancks  said 
for  him. 

*'  Indeed  ?  '*  returned  Clennam,  upon  whom  this  impres- 
sion was  so  efficiently  made  by  a  mere  gleam  of  the  polished 
head,  that  he  spoke  the  ship  instead  of  the  tug.  "  The 
people  are  so  poor  there  ?  " 

**  You  can't  say,  you  know,"  snorted  Pancks,  taking  one 
of  his  dirty  hands  out  of  his  rusty  iron-gray  pockets  to  bite  his 
nails,  if  he  could  find  any,  and  turning  his  beads  of  eyes  upon 
his  employer,  ^'  whether  they're  poor  or  not.  They  say  they 
are,  but  they  all  say  that.  When  a  man  says  he's  rich,  you're 
generally  sure  he  isn't.  Besides,  if  they  are  poor,  you  can't 
help  it.     You'd  be  poor  yourself  if  you  didn't  get  your  rents." 

"  True  enough,"  said  Arthur. 

"  You're  not  going  to  keep  open  house  for  all  the  poor  of 
London,"  pursued  Pancks.  "  You're  not  going  to  lodge  'em 
for  nothing.  You're  not  going  to  open  your  gates  wide  and 
let  'em  come  free.     Not  if  you  know  it,  you  ain't." 

Mr.  Casby  shook  his  head,  in  placid  and  benignant  gene- 
rality. 

**  If  a  man  takes  a  room  of  you  at  half-a-crown  a  week,  and 
when  the  week  comes  round  hasn't  got  the  half-crown,  you 
say  to  that  man.  Why  have  you  got  the  room,  then  ?  If  you 
haven't  got  the  one  thing,  why  have  you  got  the  other  1  What 


i62  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

have  you  been  and  done  with  your  money?  What  do  you 
mean  by  it  ?  What  are  you  up  to  ?  That's  wha,t  you  say  to  a 
man  of  that  sort;  and  if  you  didn't  say  it  more  shame  for 
you  !"  Mr.  Pancks  here  made  a  singular  and  startHng  noise, 
produced  by  a  strong  blowing  effort  in  the  region  of  the  nose, 
unattended  by  any  result  but  that  acoustic  one. 

"  You  have  some  extent  of  such  property  about  the  east 
and  northeast  here,  I  believe  ?"  said  Clennam,  doubtful  which 
of  the  two  to  address. 

"  Oh,  pretty  well,"  said  Pancks.  "  You're  not  particular 
to  east  or  northeast,  any  point  of  the  compass  will  do  for  you. 
What  you  want  is  a  good  investment  and  a  quick  return.  You 
take  it  where  you  find  it.  You  ain't  nice  as  to  situation — 
not  you." 

There  was  a  fourth  and  most  original  figure  in  the  patri- 
archal tent,  who  also  appeared  before  dinner.  This  was  an 
amazing  little  old  woman,  with  a  face  like  a  staring  wooden 
doll  too  cheap  for  expression,  and  a  stiff  yellow  wig  perched 
unevenly  on  the  top  of  her  head,-  as  if  the  child  who  owned 
the  doll  had  driven  a  tack  through  it  anywhere,  so  that  it  only 
got  fastened  on.  Another  remarkable  thing  in  this  little  old 
woman  was,  that  the  same  child  seemed  to  have  damaged  her 
face  in  two  or  three  places  with  some  blunt  instrument  in  the 
nature  of  a  spoon  ;  her  countenance,  and  particularly  the  tip 
of  her  nose,  presenting  the  phenomena  of  several  dints,  gen- 
erally answering  to  the  bowl  of  that  article.  A  further  remark- 
able thing  in  the  little  old  woman  was,  that  she  had  no  name 
but  Mr.  F.'s  aunt. 

She  broke  upon  the  visitor's  view  under  the  following  cir- 
cumstances :  Flora  said,  when  the  first  dish  was  being  put  on 
the  table,  perhaps  Mr.  Clennam  might  not  have  heard  that- 
Mr  F.  had  left  her  a  legacy  ?  Clennam  in  return  implied  his 
hope  that  Mr.  F.  had  endowed  the  wife  whom  he  adored  with 
the  greater  part  of  his  worldly  substance,  if  not  with  all. 
Flora  said,  oh  yes,  she  didn't  mean  that,  Mr.  F.  had  made  a 
beautiful  will,  but  he  had  left  her  as  a  separate  legacy,  his  aunt. 
She  then  went  out  of  the  room  to  fetch  the  legacy,  and,  on 
her  return,  rather  triumphantly  presented  "Mr.  F.'s  aunt." 

The  major  characteristics  discoverable  by  the  stranger  in 
Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  were  extreme  severity  s^nd  grim  taciturnity  ; 
sometimes  interrupted  by  a  propensity  to  offer  remarks  in  a 
deep  warning  voice,  which,  being  totally  uncalled  for  by  any 
thing  said  by  any  body,and  traceable  to  no  association  of  ideas, 
confounded  and  terrified  the  mind.    Mr.  F.'s  aunt  may  have 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  163 

thrown  in  these  observations  on  some  system  of  her  own,  and 
it  may  have  been  ingenious,  or  even  subtle  ;  but  the  key  to  it 
was  wanted. 

The  neatly-served  and  well-cooked  dinner  (for  every  thing 
about  the  patriarchal  household  promoted  quiet  digestion) 
began  with  some  soup,  some  fried  soles,  a  butter-boat  of 
shrimp  sauce,  and  a  dish  of  potatoes.  The  conversation  still 
turned  on  the  receipt  of  rents.  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  after  regarding 
the  company  for  ten  minutes  with  a  malevolent  gaze,  deliv- 
ered the  following  fearful  remark  : 

^'  When  we  lived  at  Henley,  Barnes's  gander  was  stole  by 
tinkers." 

Mr.  Pancks  courageously  nodded  his  head  and  said,  "  All 
right,  ma'am."  But  the  effect- of  this  mysterious  communica- 
tion upon  Clennam  was  absolutely  to  frighten  him.  And 
another  circumstance  invested  this  old  lady  with  peculiar 
terrors.  Though  she  was  always  staring,  she  never  acknowl- 
edged that  she  saw  any  individual.  The  polite  and  attentive 
stranger  would  desire,  say,  to  consult  her  inclinations  on  the 
subject  of  potatoes.  His  expressive  action  would  be  hope- 
lessly lost  upon  her,  and  what  could  he  do  ?  No  man  could 
say,  "Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  will  you  permit  me  ?"  Every  man  retired 
from  the  spoon,  as  Clennam  did,  cowed  and  baffled. 

There  was  mutton,  a  steak,  and  an  apple  pie — nothing  in 
the  remotest  way  connected  with  ganders — and  the  dinner 
went  on  like  a  disenchanted  feast,  as  it  truly  was.  Once  upon 
a  time  Clennam  had  sat  at  that  table  taking  no  heed  of  any 
thing  but  Flora  ;  now  the  principal  heed  he  took  of  Flora  was, 
to  observe,  against  his  will,  that  she  was  very  fond  of  porter, 
that  she  combined  a  great  deal  of  sherry  with  sentiment,  and 
that  if  she  were  a  little  overgrown,  it  was  upon  substantial 
grounds.  The  last  of  the  patriarchs  had  always  been  a 
mighty  eater,  and  he  disposed  of  an  immense  quantity  of 
solid  food  with  the  benignity  of  a  good  soul  who  was  feed- 
ing some  one  else.  Mr.  Pancks,  who  was  always  in  a  hurry, 
and  who  referred  at  intervals  to  a  little  dirty  note-book 
which  he  kept  beside  him  (perhaps  containing  the  names  of  the 
defaulters  he  meant  to  look  up  by  way  of  dessert),  took  in 
his  victuals  much  as  if  he  were  coaling  ;  with  a  good  deal  of 
noise,  a  good  deal  of  dropping  about,  and  a  puff  and  a  snort 
occasionally,  as  if  he  were  nearly  ready  to  steam  away. 

All  through  dinner.  Flora  combined  her  present  appetite 
for  eating  and  drinking,  with  her  past  appetite  for  romantic 
love,  in  a  way  that  made  Clennam  afraid  to  lift  his  eyes  from 


i64  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

his  plate  ;  since  he  could  not  look  toward  her  without  re* 
ceiving  some  glance  of  mysterious  meaning  or  warning,  as  if 
they  were  engaged  in  a  plot.  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  sat  silently  de- 
fying him  with  an  aspect  of  the  greatest  bitterness,  until  the 
removal  of  the  cloth  and  the  appearance  of  the  decanters, 
when  she  originated  another  observation — struck  into  the 
conversation  like  a  clock,  without  consulting  any  body. 

Flora  had  just  said,  "  Mr.  Clennam,  will  you  give  me  a 
glass  of  port  for  Mr.  F.'s  aunt." 

"  The  monument  near  London  Bridge,"  that  lady  instantly 
proclaimed,  "  was  put  up  arter  the  great  fire  of  London  ; 
and  the  great  fire  of  London  was  not  the  fire  in  which  your 
uncle  George's  workshops  was  burned  down." 

Mr.  Pancks,  with  his  former  courage,  said  "  Indeed  ma'am  ? 
All  right  !"  But  appearing  to  be  incensed  by  imaginary  con- 
tradiction, or  other  ill  usage,  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  instead  of  re- 
lapsing into  silence,  made  the  following  additional  procla- 
mation : 

"I  hate  a  fool!" 

She  imparted  to  this  sentiment,  in  itself  almost  Solomonic, 
so  extremely  injurious  and  personal  a  character,  by  leveling 
it  straight  at  the  visitor's  head,  that  it  became  necessary  to 
lead  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  from  the  room.  This  was  quietly  done  by 
Flora  ;  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  offering  no  resistance,  but  inquiring  on 
her  way  out  "  What  he  come  there  for,  then  ?"  with  implaca- 
ble animosity. 

When  Flora  returned,  she  explained  that  her  legacy  was  a 
clever  old  lady,  but  was  sometimes  a  little  singular,  and  "  took 
dislikes  " — peculiarities  of  which  Flora  seemed  to  be  proud 
rather  than  otherwise.  As  Flora's  good  nature  shone  in  the 
case,  Clennam  had  no  fault  to  find  with  the  old  lady  for 
eliciting  it,  now  that  he  was  relieved  from  the  terrors  of  her 
presence  ;  and  they  took  a  glass  or  two  of  wine  in  peace. 
Foreseeing  then  that  the  Pancks  would  shortly  get  under 
weigh,  and  that  the  patriarch  would  go  to  sleep,  he  pleaded 
the  necessity  of  visiting  his  mother,  and  asked  Mr.  Pancks 
in  which  direction  he  was  going  ? 

"  Cityward,  sir,"  said  Pancks. 

"  Shall  we  walk  together  ?"  said  Arthur. 

"  Quite  agreeable,"  said  Pancks. 

Meanwhile  Flora  was  murmuring  in  rapid  snatches  for  his 
ear,  that  there  was  a  time  and  that  the  past  was  a  yawning 
gulf  however  and  that  a  golden  chain  no  longer  bound  him 
and  that  she  revered  the  memory  of  the  late  Mr.  F.  and  that 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  165 

she  should  be  at  home  to-morrow  at  half -past  one  and  that 
the  decrees  of  fate  were  beyond  recall  and  that  she  consid- 
ered nothing  so  improbable  as  that  he  ever  walked  on  the  north- 
west side  of  Gray's  Inn  Gardens  at  exactly  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  He  tried  at  parting  to  give  his  hand  in  frankness 
to  the  existing  Flora — not  the  vanished  Flora,  or  the  mermaid 
— but  Flora  wouldn't  have  it,  couldn't  have  it,  was  wholly 
destitute  of  the  power  of  separating  herself  and  him  from 
their  by-gone  characters.  He  left  the  house  miserably 
enough  ;  and  so  much  more  lightheaded  than  ever,  that  if  it 
had  not  been  his  good  fortune  to  be  towed  away,  he  might, 
for  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour,  have  drifted  anywhere. 

When  he  began  to  come  to  himself,  in  the  cooler  air  and 
the  absence  of  Flora,  he  found  Pancks  at  full  speed,  cropping 
such  scanty  pasturage  of  nails  as  he  could  find,  and  snorting 
at  intervals.  These,  in  conjunction  with  one  hand  in  his 
pocket  and  his  roughened  hat  hind-side  before,  were  evi- 
dently the  conditions  under  which  he  reflected. 

"A  fresh  night !"  said  Arthur. 

"  Yes,  it's  pretty  fresh,"  assented  Pancks.  "  As  a  stranger 
you  feel  the  climate  more  than  I  do,  I  dare  say.  Indeed  I 
haven't  got  tim^e  to  feel  it." 

"  You  lead  such  a  busy  life  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  always  some  of  'em  to  look  up,  or  something 
to  look  after.  But  I  like  business,"  said  Pancks,  getting  on 
a  little  faster.     "  What's  a  man  made  for  ?" 

"  For  nothing  else  ?"  said  Clennam. 

Pancks  put  the  counter-question,  "  What  else  ?"  It 
packed  up,  in  the  smallest  compass,  a  weight  that  had  rested 
on  Clennam's  life;  and  he  made  no  answer. 

"  That's  what  I  ask  our  weekly  tenants,"  said  Pancks. 
'^  Some  of  'em  will  pull  long  faces  to  me,  and  say,  poor  as 
you  see  us,  master,  we're  always  grinding,  drudging,  toiling, 
every  minute  we're  awake.  I  say  to  them,  what  else  are  you 
made  for  ?  It  shuts  them  up.  They  haven't  a  word  to 
answer.  What  else  are  you  made  for?  That  clinches 
it." 

"  Ah  dear,  dear,  dear  !  "  sighed  Clennam. 

"  Here  am  I,"  said  Pancks,  pursuing  his  argument  with 
the  weekly  tenant.  "  What  else  do  you  suppose  I  think  I  am 
made  for  ?  Nothing.  Rattle  me  out  of  bed  early,  set  me 
going,  give  me  as  short  a  time  as  you  like  to  bolt  my  meals 
in,  and  keep  me  at  it.  Keep  me  always  at  it,  and  I'll  keep 
you  always  at  it,  you  keep  somebody  else  always  at  it.    There 


i66  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

you  are  with  the  whole  duty  of  man  in  a  commercial 
country." 

When  they  had  walked  a  little  further  in  silence, 
Clennam  said  :  "  Have  you  no  taste  for  any  thing,  Mr. 
Pancks  ?  " 

"  What's  taste  ?  "  dryly  retorted  Pancks. 

"  Let  us  say  inclination." 

"I  have  an  inclination  to  get  money,  sir,"  said  Pancks, 
"  if  you  will  show  me  how."  He  blew  off  that  sound  again, 
and  it  occurred  to  his  companion  for  the  first  time  that  it 
was  his  way  of  laughing.  He  was  a  singular  man  in  all 
respects;  he  might  not  have  been  quite  in  earnest,  but  that 
the  short,  hard,  rapid  manner  in  which  he  shot  out  these 
cinders  of  principles,  as  if  it  were  done  by  mechanical 
revolvency,  seemed  irreconcilable  with  banter. 

"You  are  no  great  reader,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Clennam. 

"  Never  read  any  thing  but  letters  and  accounts.  Never 
collect  any  thing  but  advertisements  relative  to  next  of  kin. 
If  /Aafs  a  taste,  I  have  got  that.  You're  not  of  the  Clen- 
nams  of  Cornwall,  Mr.  Clennam?" 

"  Not  that  I  ever  heard  of." 

"  I  know  you're  not.  I  asked  your  mother,  sir.  She  has 
too  much  character  to  let  a  chance  escape  her." 

"  Supposing  I  had  been  of  the  Clennams  of  Cornwall  ? " 

"You'd  have  heard  of  something  to  your  advantage." 

"  Indeed  !  I  have  heard  of  little  enough  to  my  advantage 
for  some  time." 

"  There's  a  Cornish  property  going  a  begging,  sir,  and  not 
a  Cornish  Clennam  to  have  it  for  the  asking,"  said  Pancks, 
taking  his  note-book  from  his  breast  pocket  and  putting  it  in 
again.     "  I  turn  off  here.     I  wish  you  good-night.** 

"  Good-night !  "  said  Clennam.  But  the  tug,  suddenly 
lightened,  and  untrammeled  by  having  any  weight  in  tow, 
was  already  puffing  away  into  the  distance. 

They  had  crossed  Smithfield  together,  and  Clennam  was 
left  alone  at  the  corner  of  Barbican.  He  had  no  intention 
of  presenting  himself  in  his  mother's  dismal  room  that  night, 
and  could  not  have  felt  more  depressed  and  cast  away  if  he 
had  been  in  a  wilderness.  He  turned  slowly  down  Alders- 
gate  street,  and  was  pondering  his  way  along  toward  Saint 
Paul's,  purposing  to  come  into  one  of  the  great  thoroughfares 
for  the  sake  of  their  light  and  life,  when  a  crowd  of  people 
flocked  toward  him  on  the  same  pavement,  and  he  stood 
aside  against  a  shop  to  let  them  pass.     A3  they  came  up,  he 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  167 

made  out  that  they  were  gathered  around  a  something  that 
was  carried  on  men's  shoulders.  He  soon  saw  that  it  was  a 
litter,  hastily  made  of  a  shutter  or  some  such  thing;  and  a 
recumbent  figure  upon  it,  and  the  scraps  of  conversation  in 
the  crowd,  and  a  muddy  bundle  carried  by  one  man,  and  a 
muddy  hat  carried  by  another,  informed  him  that  an  accident 
had  occurred.  The  litter  stopped  under  a  lamp  before  it  had 
passed  him  half  a  dozen  paces,  for  some  re-adjustment  of  the 
burden;  and  the  crowd  stopping,  too,  he  found  himself  in  the 
midst  of  the  array. 

"  An  accident  going  to  the  hospital  ?  "  he  asked  an  old 
man  beside  him,  who  stood  shaking  his  head,  inviting  con- 
versation. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "along  of  them  mails.  They  ought 
to  be  prosecuted  and  fined,  them  mails.  They  come  a  racing 
out  of  Lad  Lane  and  Wood  Street  at  twelve  or  fourteen  mile 
an  hour,  them  mails  do.  The  only  wonder  is,  that  people 
ain't  killed  oftener  by  them  mails." 

"  This  person  is  not  killed,  I  hope  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  !  "  said  the  man,  "  it  ain't  for  the  want  of  a 
will  in  them  mails,  if  he  ain't."  The  speaker  having  folded 
his  arms,  and  set  in  comfortably  to  address  his  depreciation  of 
them  mails  to  any  of  the  bystanders  who  would  listen,  several 
voices,  out  of  pure  sympathy  with  the  sufferer,  confirmed  him; 
one  voice  saying  to  Clennam,  "They're  a  public  nuisance,  them 
mails,  sir;"  another,  "/  see  one  on  'em  pull  up  within  half  a 
inch  of  a  boy,  last  night;"  another,  "  /see  one  on  'em  go 
over  a  cat,  sir — and  it  might  have  been  your  own  mother;" 
and  all  representing,  by  implication,  that  if  he  happened  to 
possess  any  public  influence,  he  could  not  use  it  better  than 
against  them  mails. 

'*  Why,  a  native  Englishman  is  put  to  it  every  night  of  his 
life,  to  save  his  life  from  them  mails,"  argued  the  first  old 
man  ;  "  and  he  knows  when  they're  a  coming  round  the 
corner,  to  tear  him  limb  from  limb.  What  can  you  expect 
from  a  poor  foreigner  who  don't  know  nothing  about  'em  ! " 

"  Is  this  a  foreigner  ?  "  said  Clennam,  leaning  forward  to 
look. 

In  the  midst  of  such  replies  as  **  Frenchman,  sir,"  "  Port- 
eghee,  sir,"  "  Dutchman,  sir,"  "  Prooshan,  sir,"  and  other 
conflicting  testimony,  he  now  heard  a  feeble  voice  asking, 
both  in  Italian  and  in  French,  for  water.  A  general  remark 
going  round,  in  reply,  of  "  Ah,  poor  fellow,  he  says  he'll 
never  get  over  it  ;  and  no  wonder  !  "  Clennam  begged  to 


i68  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

be  allowed  to  pass,  as  he  understood  the  poor  creature.  He 
was  immediately  handed  to  the  front,  to  speak  to  him. 

**  First,  he  wants  some  water,"  said  he,  looking  round. 
(A  dozen  good  fellows  dispersed  to  get  it.)  *' Are  you  badly 
hurt,  my  friend  ?"  he  asked  the  man  on  the  litter,  in  Italian. 

*'  Yes,  sir  ;  yes,  yes,  yes.  It's  my  leg,  it's  my  leg.  But  it 
pleases  me  to  hear  the  old  music,  though  I  am  very  bad." 

*'  You  are  a  traveler  !  Stay  !  See  the  water  !  Let  me 
give  you  some." 

They  had  rested  the  litter  on  a  pile  of  paving-stones.  It 
was  at  a  convenient  height  from  the  ground,  and  by  stooping 
he  could  lightly  raise  the  head  with  one  hand,  and  hold  the 
glass  to  the  lips  with  the  other.  A  little,  muscular,  brown 
man,  with  black  hair  and  white  teeth.  A  lively  face,  appar- 
ently.    Ear-rings  in  his  ears. 

"  That's  well.     You  are  a  traveler  ?  " 

"  Surely,  sir." 

'*  A  stranger  in  this  city  ?  " 

*^  Surely,  surely,  altogether.  I  am  arrived  this  unhappy 
evening." 

"  From  what  country  ?  " 

*' Marseilles."  • 

"  Why,  see  there  !  I  also  !  Almost  as  much  a  stranger 
here  as  you,  though  born  here,  I  came  from  Marseilles  a  little 
while  ago.  Don't  be  cast  down."  The  face  looked  up  at  him 
imploringly,  as  he  rose  from  wiping  it,  and  gently  replaced 
the  coat  that  covered  the  writhing  figure.  "  I  won't  leave 
you,  till  you  shall  be  well  taken  care  of.  Courage  !  You 
will  be  very  much  better,  half-an-hour  hence." 

"  Ah  !  Altro,  Altro  !  "  cried  the  poor  little  man,  in  a 
faintly  incredulous  tone  ;  and  as  they  took  him  up,  hung  out 
his  right  hand  to  give  the  forefinger  a  back-handed  shake  in 
the  air. 

Arthur  Clennam  turned  ;  and  walking  beside  the  litter, 
and  saying  an  encouraging  word  now  and  then,  accompanied 
it  to  the  neighboring  hospital  of  Saint  Bartholomew.  None 
o/  the  crowd  but  the  bearers  and  he  being  admitted,  the  dis- 
abled man  was  soon  laid  on  a  table  in  a  cool,  methodical 
way,  and  carefully  examined  by  a  surgeon  ;  who  was  as  near 
at  hand,  and  as  ready  to  appear,  as  calamity  herself.  "He 
hardly  knows  an  English  word,"  said  Clennam  ;  '^  is  he  badly 
hurt  ?  "  "  Let  us  know  all  about  it  first,"  said  the  surgeon, 
continuing  his  examination  with  a  business-like  delight  in  it, 
'*  before  we  pronounce." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  169 

After  trying  the  leg  with  a  finger  and  two  fingers,  and 
one  hand  and  two  hands,  and  over  and  under,  and  up  and 
down,  and  in  this  direction  and  in  that,  and  approvingly 
remarking  on  the  points  of  interest  to  another  gentleman 
who  joined  him,  the  surgeon  at  last  clapped  the  patient  on 
the  shoulder,  and  said,  ''  He  won't  hurt.  He'll  do  very 
well.  It's  difficult  enough,  but  we  shall  not  want  him  to 
part  with  his  leg  this  time."  Which  Clennam  interpreted  to 
the  patient,  who  was  full  of  gratitude,  and,  in  his  demon- 
strative way,  kissed  both  the  interpreter's  hand  and  the 
surgeon's  several  times. 

*'  It's  a  serious  injury,  I  suppose  ?"  said  Clennam. 

**  Ye-es,"  replied  the  surgeon,  with  the  thoughtful  pleasure 
of  an  artist,  contemplating  the  work  upon  his  easel.  "  Yes, 
it's  enough.  There's  a  compound  fracture  above  the  knee, 
and  a  dislocation  below.  They  are  both  of  a  beautiful 
kind."  He  gave  the  patient  a  friendly  clap  on  the  shoulder 
again,  as  if  he  really  felt  that  he  was  a  very  good  fellow 
indeed,  and  worthy  of  all  commendation  for  having  broken 
his  leg  in  a  manner  interesting  to  science. 

**  He  speaks  French?  "  said  the  surgeon. 

"  Oh  yes,  he  speaks  French." 

"  He'll  be  at  no  loss  here,  then. — You  have  only  to  bear  a 
little  pain  like  a  brave  fellow,  my  friend,  and  to  be  thankful 
that  all  goes  as  well  as  it  does,"  he  added,  in  that  tongue, 
"  and  you'll  walk  again  to  a  marvel.  Now,  let  us  see  whether 
there's  any  thing  else  the  matter,  and  how  our  ribs  are  ? " 

There  was  nothing  else  the  matter,  and  our  ribs  were 
sound.  Clennam  remained  until  every  thing  possible  to  be 
done  had  been  skillfully  and  properly  done — the  poor  belated 
wanderer  in  a  strange  land  movingly  besought  that  favor  of 
him — and  lingered  by  the  bed  to  which  he  was  in  due  time 
removed,  until  he  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  Even  then  he 
wrote  a  few  words  for  him  on  his  card,  with  a  promise  to 
return  to  morrow,  and  left  it  to  be  given  to  him  when  he 
should  awake. 

All  these  proceedings  occupied  so  long,  that  it  struck 
eleven  o'clock  at  night  as  he  came  out  at  the  Hospital  Gate. 
He  had  hired  a  lodging  for  the  present  in  Covent  Garden, 
and  he  took  the  nearest  way  to  that  quarter,  by  Snow  Hill 
and  Holborn. 

Left  to  himself  2-gain,  after  the  solicitude  and  compassion 
of  his  last  adventure,  he  was  naturally  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 
As  naturally,  he  could  not  walk  on  thinking  for  ten  minutes 


170  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

without  recalling  Flora.  She  necessarily  recalled  to  him  his 
life,  with  all  its  misdirection  and  little  happine3S. 

When  he  got  to  his  lodging,  he  sat  down  before  the  dying 
fire  as  he  had  stood  at  the  window  of  his  old  room  looking 
out  upon  the  blackened  forests  of  chimneys,  and  turned  his 
gaze  back  upon  the  gloomy  vista  by  which  he  had  come  to 
that  stage  in  his  existence.  So  long,  so  bare,  so  blank.  No 
childhood  ;  no  youth,  except  for  one  remembrance  ;  that 
one  remembrance  proved,  only  that  day,  to  be  a  piece  of 
folly. 

It  was  a  misfortune  to  him,  trifle  as  it  might  have  been  to 
another.  For,  while  all  that  was  hard  and  stern  in  his  recol- 
lection, remained  reality  on  being  proved — was  obdurate  to 
the  sight  and  touch,  and  relaxed  nothing  of  its  old  indomita- 
ble grimness — the  one  tender  recollection  of  his  experience 
would  not  bear  the  same  test,  and  melted  away.  He  had 
foreseen  this,  on  the  former  night,  when  he  had  dreamed 
with  waking  eyes  ;  but  he  had  not  felt  it  then  ;  and  he  had 
now. 

He  was  a  dreamer  in  such  wise,  because  he  was  a  man 
who  had  deep-rooted  in  his  nature,  a  belief  in  all  the  gentle 
and  good  things  his  life  had  been  without.  Bred  in  mean- 
ness and  hard  dealing,  this  had  rescued  him  to  be  a  man  of 
honorable  mind  and  open  hand.  Bred  in  coldness  and 
severity,  this  had  rescued  him  to  have  a  warm  and  sym- 
pathetic heart.  Bred  in  a  creed  too  darkly  audacious  to 
pursue,  through  its  process  of  reversing  the  making  of  man 
in  the  image  of  his  Creator  to  the  making  of  his  Creator  in 
the  image  of  an  erring  man,  this  had  rescued  him  to  judge 
not,  and  in  humility  to  be  merciful,  and  have  hope  and 
charity. 

And  this  saved  him  still  from  the  whimpering  weakness 
and  cruel  selfishness  of  holding  that  because  such  a  happi- 
ness or  such  a  virtue  had  not  come  into  his  little  path,  or 
worked  well  for  him,  therefore  it  was  not  in  the  great  scheme, 
but  was  reducible,  when  found  in  appearance,  to  the  basest 
elements.  A  disappointed  mind  he  had,  but  a  mind  too  firm 
and  healthy  for  such  unwholesome  air.  Leaving  himself  in 
the  dark,  it  could  rise  into  the  light,  seeing  it  shine  on  others 
and  hailing  it. 

Therefore,  he  sat  before  his  dying  fire,  sorrowful  to  think 
upon  the  way  by  which  he  had  come  to  that  night,  yet  not 
strewing  poison  on  the  way  by  which  other  men  had  come  to 
it.     That  he  should  have  missed  so  much,  and  at  his  time  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  171 

life  should  look  so  far  about  him  for  any  staff  to  bear  him 
company  upon  his  downward  journey  and  cheer  it,  was  a  just 
regret.  He  looked  at  the  fire  from  which  the  blaze  de- 
parted, from  which  the  after-glow  subsided,  in  which  the  ashes 
turned  gray,  from  which  they  dropped  to  dust,  and  thought, 
*'  How  soon  I  too  shall  pass  through  such  changes,  and  be 
gone  !  " 

To  review  his  life,  was  like  descending  a  green  tree  in 
fruit  and  flower,  and  seeing  all  the  branches  wither  and  drop 
off  one  by  one,  as  he  came  down  toward  them. 

"  From  the  unhappy  suppression  of  my  youngest  days, 
through  the  rigid  and  unloving  home  that  followed  them, 
through  my  departure,  my  long  exile,  my  return,  my  mother's 
welcome,  my  intercourse  with  her  since,  down  to  the  after- 
noon of  this  day  with  poor  Flora,"  said  Arthur  Clennam, 
"what  have  I  found  !  " 

His  door  was  softly  opened,  and  these  spoken  words 
startled  him,  and  came  as  if  they  were  an  answer  : 

"  Little  Dorrit." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LITTLE   DORRIT's   PARTY. 

Arthur  Clennam  rose  hastily,  and  saw  her  standing  at  the 
door.  This  history  must  sometimes  see  with  Little  Dorrit's 
eyes,  and  shall  begin  that  course  by  seeing  him. 

Little  Dorrit  looked  into  a  dim  room,  which  seemed  a  spa- 
cious one  to  her,  and  grandly  furnished.  Courtly  ideas  of 
Covent  Garden,  as  a  place  with  famous  coffee-houses,  where 
gentlemen  wearing  gold-laced  coats  and  swords  had  quar- 
reled and  fought  duels;  costly  ideas  of  Covent  Garden,  as  a 
place  where  there  were  flowers  in  winter  at  guineas  apiece, 
pine-apples  at  guineas  a  pound,  and  peas  at  guineas  a  pint; 
picturesque  ideas  of  Covent  Garden,  as  a  place  where  there 
was  a  mighty  theater,  showing  wonderful  and  beautiful 
sights  to  richly-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  which  was 
forever  far  beyond  the  reach  of  poor  Fanny  or  poor 
uncle;  desolate  ideas  of  Covent  Garden,  as  having  all  those 
arches  in  it,  where  the  miserable  children  in  rags  among 
whom  she  had  just  now  passed,  like  young  rats,  slunk  and 
hid,  fed  on  offal,  huddled  together  for  warmth,  and  were 
hunted  about  (look  to  the  rats  young  and  old,  all  ye  Barna- 


172  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

cles,  for  before  God  they  are  eating  away  our  foundations, 
and  will  bring  the  roofs  on  our  heads  !);  teeming  ideas  of 
Covent  Garden,  as  a  place  of  past  and  present  mystery, 
romance,  abundance,  want,  beauty,  ugliness,  fair  country 
gardens,  and  foul  street-gutters;  all  confused  together, — 
made  the  room  dimmer  than  it  was,  in  Little  Dorrit's  eyes,  as 
they  timidly  saw  it  from  the  door. 

At  first  in  the  chair  before  the  gone-out  fire,  and  then 
turned  round  wondering  to  see  her,  was  the  gentleman 
whom  she  sought.  The  brown  grave  gentleman,  who  smiled 
so  pleasantly,  who  was  so  frank  and  considerate  in  his  man- 
ner, and  yet  in  whose  earnestness  there  was  something  that 
reminded  her  of  his  mother,  with  the  great  difference  that 
she  was  earnest  in  asperity  and  he  in  gentleness.  Now  he 
regarded  her  with  that  attentive  and  inquiring  look  before 
which  Little  Dorr  it's  eyes  had  always  fallen,  and  before 
which  they  fell  still. 

"  My  poor  child  !     Here  at  midnight  ?  " 

*'  I  said  Little  Dorrit,  sir,  on  purpose  to  prepare  you.  I 
knew  you  must  be  very  much  surprised." 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  got  Maggy  with  me." 

Considering  her  entrance  sufficiently  prepared  for  by 
this  mention  of  her  name,  Maggy  appeared  from  the 
landing  outside  on  the  broad  grin.  She  instantly  sup- 
pressed that  manifestation,  however,  and  became  fixedly 
solemn. 

"  And  I  have  no  fire,"  said  Clennam.  *'  And  you  are — " 
He  was  going  to  say  so  lightly  clad,  but  stopped  himself  in 
what  would  have  been  a  reference  to  her  poverty,  saying  in- 
stead, *'  and  it  is  so  cold." 

Putting  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen  nearer  to  the 
grate,  he  made  her  sit  down  in  it;  and  hurriedly  bringing 
wood  and  coal,  heaped  them  together  and  got  a  blaze. 

*' Your  foot  is  like  marble,  my  child;"  he  had  happened 
to  touch  it,  while  stooping  on  one  knee  at  his  work  of  kind- 
ling the  fire;  "put  it  nearer  the  warmth."  Little  Dorrit 
thanked  him  hastily.  It  was  quite  warm,  it  was  very  warm! 
It  smote  upon  his  heart  to  feel  that  she  hid  her  thin,  worn 
shoe. 

Little  Dorrit  was  not  ashamed  of  her  poor  shoes.  He 
knew  her  story,  and  it  was  not  that.  Little  Dorrit  had  a  mis- 
giving that  he  might  blame  her  father,  if  he  saw  them;  that 
he  might  think,  "  why  did  he  dine  to-day,  and  leave  this  little 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  173 

creature  to  the  mercy  of  the  cold  stones."  She  had  no  belief 
that  it  would  have  been  a  just  reflection;  she  simply  knew, 
by  experience,  that  such  delusions  did  sometimes  present 
themselves  to  the  people.  It  was  a  part  of  her  father's  mis- 
fortunes that  they  did. 

^*  Before  I  say  any  thing  else,"  Little  Dorrit  began,  sitting 
before  the  pale  fire,  and  raising  her  eyes  again  to  the  face 
which  in  its  harmonious  look  of  interest,  and  pity,  and  pro- 
tection, she  felt  to  be  a  mystery  far  beyond  her  in  degree  and 
almost  moved  beyond  her  guessing  at;  ^'  may  I  tell  you  some- 
thing, sir?" 

''  Yes,  my  child." 

A  slight  shade  of  distress  fell  upon  her,  at  his  so  often 
calling  her  a  child.  She  was  surprised  that  she  should  see  it, 
or  think  of  such  a  slight  thing;  but  he  said  directly: 

"  I  wanted  a  tender  word,  and  could  think  of  no  other. 
As  you  just  now  gave  yourself  the  name  they  give  you  at  my 
mother^s,  and  as  that  is  the  name  by  which  I  always  think  of 
you,  let  me  call  you  Little  Dorrit." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  should  like  it  better  than  any  name/' 

"Little  Dorrit." 

"  Little  mother,"  Maggy  (who  had  been  falling  asleep)  put 
in  as  a  correction. 

**  It's  all  the  same,  Maggy,"  returned  Dorrit,  "all  the 
same.'* 

"  Is  it  all  the  same,  mother  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same.'* 

Maggy  laughed  and  immediately  snored.  In  Little  Dorrit's 
eyes  and  ears,  the  uncouth  figure  and  the  uncouth  sound 
were  as  pleasant  as  could  be.  There  was  a  glow  of  pride  in 
her  big  child,  overspreading  her  face,  when  it  again  met  the 
eyes  of  the  grave  brown  gentleman.  She  wondered  what  he 
was  thinking  of,  as  he  looked  at  Maggy  and  her.  She  thought 
what  a  good  father  he  would  be.  How,  with  some  such  look, 
he  would  counsel  and  cherish  his  daughter, 

"  What  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
"is,  that  my  brother  is  at  large." 

Arthur  was  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  and  hoped  he  would  do  well. 

"And  what  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
trembling  in  all  her  little  figure  and  in  her  voice,  "  is,  that  I 
am  not  to  know  whose  generosity  released  him — am  never 
to  ask,  and  am  never  to  be  told,  and  am  never  to  thank  that 
gentleman  with  all  my  grateful  heart  ! " 

He  would  probably  need  no  thanks,  Clennam  said.     Very 


174  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

likely  he  would  be  thankful  himself  (and  with  reason),  that 
he  had  had  the  means  and  chance  of  doing  a  little  service  to 
her,  who  well  deserved  a  great  one. 

^^  And  what  I  was  going  to  say,  sir,  is,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
trembling  more  and  more,  *'  that  if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might, 
I  would  tell  him  that  he  can  never,  never  know  how  I  feel  his 
goodness,  and  how  my  good  father  would  feel  it.  And  what 
I  was  going  to  say,  sir,  is,  that  if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might — 
but  I  don't  know  him  and  I  must  not — I  know  that  ! — I  would 
tell  him  that  I  shall  never  any  more  lie  down  to  sleep,  with- 
out having  prayed  to  heaven  to  bless  him  and  reward  him 
And,  if  I  knew  him,  and  I  might,  I  would  go  down  on  my 
knees  to  him,  and  take  his  hand  and  kiss  it,  and  ask  him  not 
to  draw  it  away,  but  to  leave  it — oh  to  leave  it  for  a  moment 
— and  let  my  thankful  tears  fall  on  it,  for  I  have  no  other 
thanks  to  give  him  !  " 

Little  Dorrit  had  put  his  hand  to  her  lips,  and  would  have 
kneeled  to  him,  but  he  gently  prevented  her,  and  replaced 
her  in  her  chair.  Her  eyes  and  the  tones  of  her  voice,  had 
thanked  him  far  better  than  she  thought.  He  was  not  able 
to  say,  quite  as  composedly  as  usual,  '^  There,  Little  Dorrit, 
there,  there,  there  !  We  will  suppose  that  you  did  know  this 
person,  and  that  you  might  do  all  this,  and  that  it  was  all 
done.  And  now  tell  me,  who  am  quite  another  person — who 
am  nothing  more  than  the  friend  who  begged  you  to  trust 
him — Why  are  you  out  at  midnight,  and  what  it  is  that  brings 
you  so  far  through  the  streets  at  this  late  hour,  my  slight, 
delicate,"  child  was  on  his  lips  again,  "  Little  Dorrit !  " 

"  Maggy  and  I  have  been  to-night,"  she  answered,  sub- 
duing herself  with  the  quiet  effort  that  had  long  been  nat- 
ural to  her,  "  to  the  theater  w^here  my  sister  is  engaged." 

"  And  oh  ain't  it  a  ev'nly  place,"  suddenly  interrupted 
Maggy,  who  seemed  to  have  the  power  of  going  to  sleep  and 
waking  up  whenever  she  chose.  ^'  Almost  as  good  as  a 
hospital.     Only  there  ain't  no  chicking  in  it." 

Here  she  shook  herself,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

"  We  went  there,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  glancing  at  her  charge, 
"because  I  like  sometimes  to  know,  of  my  own  knowledge, 
that  my  sister  is  doing  well  ;  and  like  to  see  her  there,  with 
my  own  eyes,  when  neither  she  nor  uncle  is  aware.  It  is 
very  seldom  indeed  that  I  can  do  that,  because  when  I  am 
not  out  at  work  I  am  with  my  father,  and  even  when  I  am 
out  at  work,  I  hurry  home  to  him.  But  I  pretend  to-night 
that  I  am  at  a  party." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  175 

As  she  made  the  confession,  timidly  hesitating,  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  face,  and  read  its  expression  so  plainly  that 
she  answered  it. 

"  Oh  no,  certainly  !     I  never  was  at  a  party  in  my  life." 

She  paused  a  little  under  his  attentive  look,  and  then  said, 
"  I  hope  there  is  no  harm  in  it.  I  could  never  have  been  of 
any  use,  if  I  had  not  pretended  a  little." 

She  feared  that  he  was  blaming  her  in  his  mind,  for  so 
devising  to  contrive  for  them,  think  for  them,  and  watch  over 
them,  without  their  knowledge  or  gratitude  ;  perhaps  even 
with  their  reproaches  for  supposed  neglect.  But  what  was 
really  in  his  mind, was  the  weak  figure  with  its  strong  purpose, 
the  thin  worn  shoes,  the  insufficient  dress,  and  the  pretense 
of  recreation  and  enjoyment.  He  asked  where  the  supposi- 
titious party  was  ?  At  a  place  where  she  worked,  answered 
Little  Dorrit,  blushing.  She  had  said  very  little  about  it  ; 
only  a  few  words  to  make  her  father  easy.  Her  father  did 
not  believe  it  to  be  a  grand  party — indeed  he  might  suppose 
that.  And  she  glanced  for  an  instant  at  the  shawl  she 
wore. 

"  It  is  the  first  night,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  "  that  I  have  ever 
been  away  from  home.  And  London  looks  so  large,  so  bar- 
ren, and  so  wild."  In  Little  Dorrit's  eyes,  its  vastness  under 
the  black  sky  was  awful ;  a  tremor  passed  over  her  as  she 
said  the  words. 

"  But  this  is  not,"  she  added,  with  the  quiet  effort  again, 
*'  what  I  have  come  to  trouble  you  with,  sir.  My  sister's  hav- 
ing found  a  friend,  a  lady  she  has  told  me  of  and  made  me 
rather  anxious  about,  was  the  first  cause  of  my  coming  away 
from  home.  And  being  away,  and  coming  (on  purpose) 
round  by  where  you  lived,  and  seeing  a  light  in  the  win- 
dow— " 

Not  for  the  first  time.  No,  not  for  the  first  time.  In 
Little  Dorrit's  eyes,  the  outside  of  that  window  had  been  a 
distant  star  on  other  nights  than  this.  She  had  toiled  out  of 
her  way,  tired  and  troubled,  to  look  up  at  it,  and  wonder 
about  the  grave,  brown  gentleman  from  so  far  off,  who  had 
spoken  to  her  as  a  friend  and  protector. 

"  There  were  three  things,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  '^  that  I 
thought  I  would  like  to  say,  if  you  were  alone  and  I  might 
come  up  stairs.  First,  what  I  have  tried  to  say,  but  never 
can — never  shall — " 

"  Hush,  hush!  That  is  done  with,  and  disposed  of.  Let 
us  pass  to  the  second,"  said   Clennam,  smiling  her  agitation 


176  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

away,  making  the  blaze  shine  upon  her,  and  putting  wine 
and  cake  and  fruit  toward  her  on  the  table. 

'*  I  think,"  said  Little  Dorrit — *^  this  is  the  second  thing, 
sir — I  think  Mrs.  Clennam  must  have  found  out  my  secret, 
and  must  know  where  I  come  from  and  where  I  go  to. 
Where  I  live,  I  mean." 

"  Indeed  !  "  returned  Clennam,  quickly.  He  asked  her, 
after  a  short  consideration,  why  she  supposed  so. 

"  I  think,"  replied  Little  Dorrit,  ''  that  Mr.  Flintwinch 
must  have  watched  me." 

And  why,  Clennam  asked,  as  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  the 
fire,  bent  his  brows,  and  considered  again;  why  did  she  sup- 
pose that  ? 

"  I  have  met  him  twice.  Both  times  near  home.  Both 
times  at  night,  when  I  was  going  back.  Both  times  I  thought 
(though  that  may  easily  be  my  mistake),  that  he  hardly  looked 
as  if  he  had  met  me  by  accident." 

**  Did  he  say  any  thing  ? " 

**No;  he  only  nodded  and  put  his  head  on  one  side." 

"  The  devil  take  his  head  !  "  mused  Clennam,  still  looking 
at  the  fire;  "  it's  always  on  one  side." 

He  roused  himself  to  persuade  her  to  put  some  wine  to  her 
lips,  and  to  touch  something  to  eat — it  was  very  diffi- 
cult, she  was  so  timid  and  shy — and  then  said,  musing 
again : 

"  Is  my  mother  at  all  changed  to  you  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  not  at  all.  She  is  just  the  same.  I  wondered 
whether  I  had  better  tell  her  my  history.  I  wondered 
whether  I  might — I  mean,  whether  you  would  like  me  to  tell 
her.  I  wondered,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  looking  at  him  in  a 
suppliant  way,  and  gradually  withdrawing  her  eyes  as  he 
looked  at  her,  *'  whether  you  would  advise  me  what  I  ought 
to  do." 

^'  Little  Dorrit,"  said  Clennam;  and  the  phrase  had  al- 
ready begun,  between  these  two,  to  stand  for  a  hundred 
gentle  phrases,  according  to  the  varying  tone  and  connection 
in  which  it  was  used;  *^  do  nothing.  I  will  have  some  talk 
with  my  old  friend,  Mrs.  Affery.  Do  nothing.  Little  Dorrit — 
except  refresh  yourself  with  such  means  as  there  are  here.  I 
entreat  you  to  do  that." 

**  Thank  you,  I  am  not  hungry.  Nor,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
as  he  softly  put  her  glass  toward  her;  *'  nor  thirsty.  I  think 
Maggy  might  like  something,  perhaps." 

"  We  will  make  her  find  pockets  presently  for  all  there  is 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  177 

here,"  said  Clennam;  *^  but  before  we  awake  her,  there  was  a 
third  thing  to  say." 

^'  Yes.     You  will  not  be  offended,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  promise  that,  unreservedly." 

*'  It  will  sound  strange.  I  hardly  know  how  to  say  it. 
Don't  think  it  unreasonable  or  ungrateful  in  me,"  said  Little 
Dorrit,  with  returning  and  increasing  agitation. 

^'  No,  no,  no.  I  am  sure  it  will  be  natural  and  right.  I 
am  not  afraid  that  I  shall  put  a  wrong  construction  on  it, 
whatever  it  is." 

**  Thank  you.  You  are  coming  back  to  see  my  father 
again  ?  " 

^'Yes." 

**  You  have  been  so  good  and  thoughtful  as  to  write  him  a 
note,  saying  that  you  are  coming  to-morrow  ? " 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing  !     Yes." 

'*  Can  you  guess,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  folding  her  small 
hands  tight  in  one  another,  and  looking  at  him  with  all  the 
earnestness  of  her  soul  looking  steadily  out  of  her  eyes, 
"  what  I  am  going  to  ask  you  not  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can.     But  I  may  be  wrong." 

"No,  you  are  not  wrong,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  shaking  her 
head.  '*  If  we  should  want  it  so  very,  very  badly  that  we 
can  not  do  v/ithout  it,  let  me  ask  you  for  it." 

''  I  will— I  will." 

**  Don't  encourage  him  to  ask.  Don't  understand  him,  if 
he  does  ask.  Don't  give  it  to  him.  Save  him  and  spare  him 
that,  and  you  will  be  able  to  think  better  of  him!  " 

Clennam  said — not  very  plainly,  seeing  those  tears  glisten- 
ing in  her  anxious  eye — that  her  wish  should  be  sacred  with 
him.  ■>     I 

"  You  don't  know  what  he  is,"  she  said  ;  "  you  don't  know 
what  he  really  is.  How  can  you,  seeing  him  there,  all  at 
once,  dear  love,  and  not  gradually,  as  I  have  done  !  You 
have  been  so  good  to  us,  so  delicately  and  truly  good,  that  I 
want  him  to  be  better  in  your  eyes  than  in  any  body's.  And 
I  can  not  bear  to  think,"  cried  Little  Dorrit,  covering  her 
tears  with  her  hands,  "  I  can  not  bear  to  think  that  you  of  all 
the  world  should  see  him  in  his  only  moments  of  degrada- 
tion." 

**Pray,"  said  Clennam,  "do  not  be  so  distressed.  Pray, 
pray.  Little  Dorrit  !     This  is  quite  understood  now." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you  !  I  have  tried  very  much 
to  keep  myself  from  saying  this  ;  I  have  thought  about  it, 


178  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

days  and  nights  ;  but  when  I  knew  for  certain  you  were  com- 
ing again,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  speak  to  you.  Not  because 
I  am  ashamed  of  him,"  she  dried  her  tears  quickly,  "but 
because  I  know  him  better  than  any  one  does,  and  love  him, 
and  am  proud  of  him." 

Relieved  of  this  weight.  Little  Dorrit  was  nervously  anx- 
ious to  be  gone.  Maggy  being  broad  awake,  and  in  the  act 
of  distantly  gloating  over  the  fruit  and  cakes  with  chuckles 
of  anticipation,  Clennam  made  the  best  diversion  in  his 
power  by  pouring  her  out  a  glass  of  wine,  which  she  drank 
in  a  series  of  loud  smacks  ;  putting  her  hand  upon  her  wind- 
pipe after  every  one,  and  saying,  breathless,  with  her  eyes  in 
a  prominent  state,  "  Oh  ain't  it  d'licious  !  Ain't  it  hospi- 
tally  !"  When  she  had  finished  the  wine  and  these  encomiums, 
he  charged  her  to  load  her  basket  (she  was  never  without 
her  basket)  with  every  eatable  thing  upon  the  table,  and  to 
take  especial  care  to  leave  no  scrap  behind.  Maggy's  pleas- 
ure in  doing  this,  and  her  little  mother's  pleasure  in  seeing 
Maggy  pleased,  was  as  good  a  turn  as  circumstances  could 
have  given  to  the  late  conversation. 

"  But  the  gates  will  have  been  locked  long  ago,"  said  Clen- 
nam, suddenly  remembering  it.     "  Where  are  you  going?" 

"  I  am  going  to  Maggy's  lodging,"  answered  little  Dorrit. 
'^I  shall  be  quite  safe,  quite  well  taken  care  of." 

"  I  must  accompany  you  there,"  said  Clennam.  "  I  can 
not  let  you  go  alone." 

''  Yes,  pray  leave  us  to  go  there  by  ourselves.  Pray  do  !  " 
begged  Little  Dorrit. 

She  was  so  earnest  in  the  petition,  that  Clennam  felt  a 
delicacy  in  obtruding  himself  upon  her  ;  the  rather  because 
he  cQuld  well  understand  that  Maggy's  lodging  was  of  the 
obscurest  sort.  "  Come,  Maggy,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  cheer- 
ily, *^  we  shall  do  very  well  ;  we  know  the  way,  by  this  time, 
Maggy  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,  little  mother  ;  we  know  the  way,"  chuckled 
Maggy.  And  away  they  went.  Little  Dorrit  turned  at  the 
door  to  say  *'  God  bless  you  !  "  She  said  it  very  softly,  but 
perhaps  she  may  have  been  as  audible  above — who  knows  I 
— as  a  whole  cathedral  choir. 

Arthur  Clennam  suffered  them  to  pass  the  corner  of  the 
street,  before  he  followed  at  a  distance  ;  not  with  any  idea 
of  encroaching  a  second  time  on  Little  Dorrit's  privacy,  but 
to  satisfy  his  mind  by  seeing  her  secure,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood to  which  she  was  accustomed.     So  diminutive   she 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  179 

looked,  so  fragile  and  defenseless  against  the  bleak  damp 
weather,  flitting  along  in  the  shuffling  shadow  of  her  charge, 
that  he  felt,  in  his  compassion,  and  in  his  habit  of  consider- 
ing her  a  child  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  rough  world,  as  if 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  take  her  up  in  his  arms  and 
carry  her  to  her  journey's  end. 

In  course  of  time  she  came  into  the  leading  thoroughfare 
where  the  Marshalsea  was,  and  then  he  saw  them  slacken 
their  pace,  and  soon  turn  down  a  by-street.  He  stopped, 
felt  that  he  had  no  right  to  go  further,  and  slowly  left  them. 
He  had  no  suspicion  that  they  ran  any  risk  of  being  house- 
less until  morning  ;  had  no  idea  of  the  truth,  until  long,  long 
afterward. 

But,  said  Little  Dorrit,  when  they  stopped  at  a  poor  dwell- 
ing all  in  darkness  and  heard  no  sound  on  listening  at  the 
door,  *'  Now,  this  is  a  good  lodging  for  you,  Maggy,  and  we 
must  not  give  offense.  Consequently  we  will  only  knock 
twice,  and  not  very  loud  ;  and  if  we  can  not  wake  them  so, 
we  must  walk  about  till  day." 

Once,  Little  Dorrit  knocked  with  a  careful  hand,  and  lis- 
tened. Twice,  Little  Dorrit  knocked  with  a  careful  hand, 
and  listened.  All  was  close  and  still.  "  Maggy,  we  must  do 
the  best  we  can,  my  dear.  We  must  be  patient,  and  wait  for 
day." 

It  was  a  chill  dark  night,  with  a  damp  wind  blowing,  when 
they  came  out  into  the  leading  street  again,  and  heard  the 
clocks  strike  half-past  one.  "  In  only  five  hours  and  a  half," 
said  Little  Dorrit,  "  we  shall  be  able  to  go  home."  To 
speak  of  home,  and  to  go  and  look  at  it,  it  being  so  near, 
was  a  natural  sequence.  They  went  to  the  closed  gate  and 
peeped  through  into  the  courtyard.  '*  I  hope  he  is  sound 
asleep,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  kissing  one  of  the  bars,  **  and 
does  not  miss  me." 

The  gate  was  so  familiar,  and  so  like  a  companion,  that 
they  put  down  Maggy's  basket  in  a  corner  to  serve  for  a 
seat,  and  keeping  close  together,  rested  there  for  some  time. 
While  the  street  was  empty,  and  silent,  Litttle  Dorrit  was 
not  afraid;  but  when  she  heard  a  footstep  at  a  distance,  or 
saw  a  moving  shadow  among  the  street  lamps,  she  was 
startled,  and  whispered,  "  Maggy,  I  see  some  one.  Come 
away  !  "  Maggie  would  then  wake  up  more  or  less  fret- 
fully, and  they  would  wander  about  a  little,  and  come  back 
again. 

As  long  as  eating  was  a  novelty  and  an  amusement,  Maggy 


i8o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

kept  up  pretty  well.  But,  that  period  going  by,  she  became 
querulous  about  the  cold,  and  shivered  and  whimpered. 
"  It  will  soon  be  over,  dear,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  patiently. 
*^  Oh,  it's  all  very  fine  for  you,  little  mother,"  returned 
Maggy,  ^'  but  I'm  a  poor  thing,  only  ten  years  old."  At 
last  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  when  the  street  was  very  still 
indeed.  Little  Dorrit  laid  the  heavy  head  upon  her  bosom, 
and  soothed  her  to  sleep.  And  thus  she  sat  at  the  gate,  as 
it  were,  alone  ;  looking  up  at  the  stars,  and  seeing  the  clouds 
pass  over  them  in  their  wild  flight — which  was  the  dance  at 
Little  Dorrit's  party. 

*'  If  it  really  was  a  party  !  "  she  thought  once  as  she  sat 
there,  "  If  it  was  light  and  warm  and  beautiful,  and  it  was  our 
house,  and  my  poor- dear  was  its  master,  and  had  never  been 
inside  these  walls.  And  if  Mr.  Clennam  was  one  of  our  visi- 
tors, and  we  were  dancing  to  delightful  music,  and  were  all 
as  gay  and  light  hearted  as  ever  we  could  be  !  I  wonder — " 
Such  a  vista  of  wonder  opened  out  before  her,  that  she  sat 
looking  up  at  the  stars,  quite  lost ;  until  Maggy  was  queru- 
lous again,  and  wanted  to  get  up  and  walk. 

Three  o'clock,  and  half-past  three,  and  they  had  passed 
over  London  Bridge.  They  had  heard  the  rush  of  the  tide 
against  obstacles  ;  had  looked  down,  awed,  through  the  dark 
vapor  on  the  river  ;  had  seen  little  spots  of  lighted  water 
where  the  bridge  lamps  were  reflected,  shining  like  demon 
eyes,  with  a  terrible  fascination  in  them  for  guilt  and  misery. 
They  had  shrunk  past  homeless  people,  lying  coiled  up  in 
nooks.  They  had  run  from  drunkards.  They  had  started 
from  slinking  men,  whistling  and  singing  to  one  another  at 
by-corners,  or  running  away  at  full  speed.  Though  every- 
where the  leader  and  the  guide,  Little  Dorrit,  happy  for 
once  in  her  youthful  appearance,  feigned  to  cling  to  and  rely 
on  Maggy.  And  more  than  once  some  voice,  from  among  a 
knot  of  brawling  or  prowling  figures  in  their  path,  had  called 
out  to  the  rest  to  ^'  let  the  woman  and  the  child  go  by  !  " 

So,  the  woman  and  the  child  had  gone  by,  and  gone  on, 
and  five  had  sounded  from  the  steeples.  They  were  walk- 
ing slowly  toward  the  east,  already  looking  for  the  first  pale 
streak  of  day,  when  a  woman  came  after  the*hi. 

*'  What  are  you  doing  with  the  child  ? "  she  said  to 
Maggy. 

She  was  young — far  too  young  to  be  there,  heaven 
knows  ! — and  neither  ugly  nor  wicked-looking.  She  spoke 
coarsely,  but  with  no  naturally  coarse  voice;  there  was  even 
something  musical  in  its  sound 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  i8i 

**  What  are  you  doing  with  yourself  ? "  retorted  Maggy,  for 
want  of  a  better  answer. 

"  Can't. you  see  without  my  telling  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  can,"  said  Maggy. 

"  Killing  myself.  Now  I  have  answered  you,  answer  me. 
What  are  you  doing  with  the  child  ?  " 

The  supposed  child  kept  her  head  drooped  down,  and  kept  ^ 
her  form  close  at  Maggy's  side. 

*'  Poor  thing  !  "  said  the  woman.  "  Have  you  no  feeling, 
that  you  keep  her  out  in  the  cruel  streets  at  such  a  time  as 
this?  Have  you  no  eyes,  that  you  don't  see  how  delicate 
and  slender  she  is  ?  Have  you  no  sense  (you  don't  look  as 
if  you  had  much)  that  you  don't  take  more  pity  on  this  cold 
and  trembling  hand?" 

She  had  stepped  across  to  that  side,  and  held  the  hand 
between  her  own  two,  chafing  it.  Kiss  a  poor  lost  creat- 
ure, dear,"  she  said,  bending  her  face,  ^^  and  tell  me  where 
she's  taking  you." 

Little  Dorrit  turned  toward  her. 

**  Why,  my  God  !  "  she  said,  recoiling,  *'  you're  a  woman  !'* 

*^  Don't  mind  that  !  "  said  Little  Dorrit,  clasping  one  of 
the  hands  that  had  suddenly  released  hers.  **  I  am  not  afraid 
of  you." 

"  Then  you  had  better  be,"  she  answered.  "  Have  you 
no  mother?" 

''  No." 

**  No  fatfier  ? " 

"  Yes,  a  very  dear  one." 

"  Go  home  to  him,  and  be  afraid  of  me.  Let  me  go. 
Good  night  !  " 

"  I  must  thank  you  first ;  let  me  speak  to  you  as  if  I  really 
were  a  child." 

*^  You  can't  do  it,"  said  the  woman.  **  You  are  kind  and 
innocent ;  but  you  can't  look  at  me  out  of  a  child's  eyes.  I 
never  should  have  touched  you,  but  I  thought  that  you  were 
a  child."     And  with  a  strange,  wild  cry,  she  went  away. 

No  day  yet  in  the  sky,  but  there  was  a  day  in  the  resound- 
ing stones  of  the  streets  ;  in  the  wagons,  carts,  and  coaches; 
in  the  workers  going  to  various  occupations  ;  in  the  opening 
of  early  shops  ;  in  the  traffic  at  markets  ;  in  the  stir  of  the 
river-side.  There  was  coming  day  in  the  flaring  lights,  with 
a  feebler  color  in  them  than  they  would  have  had  at  another 
time  ;  coming  day  in  the  increased  sharpness  of  the  air,  and 
the  ghastly  dying  of  the  night. 


i82  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

They  went  back  again  to  the  gate,  intending  to  wait  there 
now  until  it  should  be  opened  ;  but  the  air  was  so  raw  and 
cold,  that  Little  Dorrit,  leading  Maggy  about  in  her  sleep, 
kept  in  motion.  Going  round  by  the  church,  she  saw 
lights  there,  and  the  door  open  ;  and  went  up  the  steps, 
and  looked  in. 

*' Who's  that  ? "  cried  a  stout  old  man,  who  was  putting  on 
a  night-cap  as  if  he  were  going  to  bed  in  a  vault. 

"  It's  no  one  particular,  sir,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Stop  !  "  cried  the  man.     '^  Let's  have  a  look  at  you  !  ** 

This  caused  her  to  turn  back  again,  in  the  act  of  going 
out,  and  to  present  herself  and  her  charge  before  him. 

"  I  thought  so  !  "  said  he.     "  I  knowj^'^^." 

^'  We  have  often  seen  each  other,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
recognizing  the  sexton,  or  the  beadle,  or  the  verger,  or  what- 
ever he  was,  "  when  I  have  been  at  church  here.". 

"  More  than  that,  we've  got  your  birth  in  our  register, 
you  know  ;  you're  one  of  our  curiosities." 

*'  Indeed  ?  "  said  Little  Dorrit. 

*'  To  be  sure.  As  the  child  of  the — by-the-by,  how  did 
you  get  out  so  early  ?  " 

*'  We  were  shut  out  last  night,  and  are  waiting  to  get  in.'* 

*'  You  don't  mean  it  ?  And  there's  another  hour  good  yet! 
Come  into  the  vestry.  You'll  find  a  fire  in  the  vestry,  on 
account  of  the  painters.  I'm  waiting  for  the  painters,  or  I 
shouldn't  be  here,  you  may  depend  upon  it.  One  of  our 
curiosities  mustn't  be  cold,  when  we  have  it  in  our  power  to 
warm  her  up  comfortable.     Come  along." 

He  was  a  very  good  old  fellow,  in  his  familiar  way  ;  and 
having  stirred  the  vestry  fire,  he  looked  round  the  shelves 
of  registers  for  a  particular  volume.  "  Here  you  are,  you 
see,"  he  said,  taking  it  down  and  turning  the  leaves.  "  Here 
you'll  find  yourself,  as  large  as  life.  Amy,  daughter  of 
William  and  Fanny  Dorrit.  Born,  Marshalsea  Prison,  Par- 
ish of  St.  George.  And  we  tell  people  that  you  have  lived 
there,  without  so  much  as  a  day's  or  a  night's  absence,  ever 
since.     Is  it  true  ?  " 

*^  Quite  true,  till  last  night." 

'^  Lord  !  "  But  his  surveying  her  with  an  admiring  gaze 
suggested  something  else  to  him,  to  wit  :  '*  I  am  sorry  to 
see,  though,  that  you  are  faint  and  tired.  Stay  a  bit.  I'll 
get  some  cushions  out  of  the  church,  you  and  your  friend 
shall  lie  down  before  the  fire.  Don't  be  afraid  of  not  going 
in  to  join  your  father  when  the  gate  opens.     /'//  call  you." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  183 

He  soon  brought  in  the  cushions,  and  strewed  them  on 
the  ground. 

*^  There  you  are,  you  see.  Again  as  large  as  life.  Oh, 
never  mind  thanking.  I've  daughters  of  my  own.  And 
though  they  weren't  born  in  the  Marshalsea  prison,  they 
might  have  been,  if  I  had  been,  in  my  ways  of  carrying  on, 
of  your  father's  breed.  Stop  a  bit.  I  must  put  something 
under  the  cushion  for  your  head.  Here's  a  burial  volume. 
Just  the  thing  !  We  have  got  Mrs.  Bangham  in  this  book. 
But  what  makes  these  books  interesting  to  most  people  is — 
not  who's  in  'em,  but  who  isn't — who's  coming,  you  know, 
and  when.     That's  the  interesting  question." 

Commendingly  looking  back  at  the  pillow  he  had  impro- 
vised, he  left  them  to  their  hour's  repose.  Maggy  was 
snoring  already,  and  Little  Dorrit  was  soon  fast  asleep,  with 
her  head  resting  on  that  sealed  book  of  fate,  untroubled  by 
its  mysterious  blank  leaves. 

This  was  Little  Dorrit's  party.  The  shame,  desertion, 
wretchedness,  and  exposure,  of  the  great  capital  ;  the  wet, 
the  cold,  the  slow  hours,  and  the  swift  clouds  of  the  dismal 
night.  This  was  the  party  from  which  Little  Dorrit  went 
home,  jaded,  in  the  first  gray  mist  of  a  rainy  morning. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MRS.    FLINTWINCH    HAS   ANOTHER   DREAM. 

The  debilitated  old  house  in  the  city,  wrapped  in  its  man- 
tle of  soot,  and  leaning  heavily  on  the  crutches  that  had 
partaken  of  its  decay  and  worn  out  with  it,  never  knew  a 
healthy  or  a  cheerful  interval,  let  what  would  betide.  If 
the  sun  ever  touched  it,  it  was  but  with  a  ray,  and  that  was 
gone  in  half  an  hour  ;  if  the  moonlight  ever  fell  upon  it,  it 
was  only  to  put  a  few  patches  on  its  doleful  cloak,  and 
make  it  look  more  wretched.  The  stars,  to  be  sure,  coldly 
watched  it  when  the  nights  and  the  smoke  were  clear  enough  ; 
and  all  bad  weather  stood  by  it  with  a  rare  fidelity.  You 
should  alike  find  rain,  hail,  frost,  and  thaw  lingering  in  that 
dismal  inclosure,  when  they  had  vanished  from  other 
places  ;  and  as  to  snow,  you  should  see  it  there  for  weeks, 
long  after  it  had  changed  from  yellow  to  black,  slowly  weep- 
ing away  its  grimy  life.  The  place  had  no  other  adherents. 
As  to  street  noises,  the  rumbling  of  wheels  in  the  lane  merely 


i84  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

rushed  in  at  the  gateway  in  going  past,  and  rushed  out 
again  :  making  the  listening  Mistress  Affery  feel  as  if  she 
were  deaf,  and  recovered  the  sense  of  hearing  by  instan- 
taneous flashes.  So  with  whistling,  singing,  talking,  laugh- 
ing, and  all  pleasant  human  sounds.  They  leaped  the  gap 
in  a  moment,  and  went  upon  their  way. 

The  varying  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  Mrs.  Clennam's 
room  made  the  greatest  change  that  ever  broke  the  dead 
monotony  of  the  spot.  In  her  two  long  narrow  windows, 
the  fire  shone  sullenly  all  day,  and  sullenly  all  night.  On 
rare  occasions,  it  flashed  up  passionately,  as  she  did  ;  but 
for  the  most  part  it  was  suppressed,  like  her,  and  preyed 
upon  itself  evenly  and  slowly.  During  many  hours  of  the 
short  winter  days,  however,  when  it  was  dusk  there  early  in 
the  afternoon,  changing  distortions  of  herself  in  her  wheeled 
chair,  of  Mr.  Flintwinch  with  his  wry  neck,  of  Mistress 
Affery  coming  and  going,  would  be  thrown  upon  the  house 
wall  that  was  over  the  gate-way,  and  would  hover  there  like 
shadows  from  a  great  magic  lantern.  As  the  room-ridden 
invalid  settled  for  the  night,  these  would  gradually  disap- 
pear ;  Mistress  Affery's  magnified  shadow  always  flitting 
about,  last,  until  it  finally  glided  away  into  the  air,  as  though 
she  were  off  upon  a  witch  excursion.  Then  the  solitary 
light  would  burn  unchangingly,  until  it  burned  pale  before 
the  dawn,  and  at  least  died  under  the  breath  of  Mistress 
'Affery,  as  her  shadow  descended  on  it  from  the  witch-region 
of  sleep. 

Strange,  if  the  little  sick-room  fire  were  in  effect  a  beacon 
fire,  summoning  some  one,  and  that  the  most  unlikely  some 
one  in  the  world,  to  the  spot  that  must  be  come  to. 
Strange,  if  the  little  sick-room  light  were  in  effect  a  watch- 
light,  burning  in  that  place  every  night  until  an  appointed 
event  should  be  watched  out !  Which  of  the  vast  multitude 
of  travelers,  under  the  sun  and  the  stars,  climbing  the 
dusty  hills  and  toiling  along  the  weary  plains,  journeying  by 
land  and  journeying  by  sea,  coming  and  going  so  strangely, 
to  meet  and  to  act  and  react  on  one  another,  which  of  the 
host  may,  with  no  suspicion  of  the  journey's  end,  be  travel- 
ing surely  hither  ? 

Time  shall  show  us.  The  post  of  honor  and  the  post  of 
shame,  the  general's  station  and  the  drummer's,  a  peer's 
statue  in  Westminster  Abbey  and  a  seaman's  hammock  in 
the  bosom  of  the  deep,  the  miter  and  the  workhouse,  the 
woolsack  and  the   gallows,   the  throne  and  the  guillotine — 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  185 

the  travelers  to  all  are  on  the  great  high  road  ;  but  it  has 
wonderful  divergences,  and  only  time  shall  show  us  whither 
each  traveler  is  bound. 

On  a  wintry  afternoon  at  twilight,  Mrs.  Flintwinch,  having 
been  heavy  all  day,  dreamed  this  dream  : 

She  thought  she  was  in  the  kitchen  getting  the  kettle  ready 
for  tea,  and  was  warming  herself  with  her  feet  upon  the 
fender  and  the  skirt  of  her  gown  tucked  up,  before  the 
collapsed  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  grate,  bordered  on  either 
hand  by  a  deep  cold  black  ravine.  She  thought  that  as  she 
sat  thus,  musing  upon  the  question,  whether  life  was  not 
for  some  people  a  rather  dull  invention,  she  was  frightened 
by  a  sudden  noise  behind  her.  She  thought  that  she  had 
been  similarly  frightened  once  last  week,  and  that  the  noise 
was  of  a  mysterious  kind — a  sound  of  rustling,  and  of  three 
or  four  quick  beats  like  a  rapid  step  ;  while  a  shock  or 
tremble  was  communicated  to  her  heart,  as  if  the  step  had 
shaken  the  floor,  or  even  as  if  she  had  been  touched  by 
some  awful  hand.  She  thought  that  this  revived  within  her, 
certain  old  fears  of  hers  that  the  house  was  haunted  ;  and 
that  she  flew  up  the  kitchen  stairs,  without  knowing  how  she 
got  up,  to  be  nearer  company. 

Mistress  Affery  thought  that  on  reaching  the  hall,  she  saw 
the  door  of  her  liege  lord's  office  standing  open,  and  the 
room  empty.  That  she  went  to  the  ripped-up  window,  in  the 
little  room  by  the  street  door,  to  connect  her  palpitating 
heart,  through  the  glass,  with  living  things  beyond  and  out- 
side the  haunted  house.  That  she  then  saw,  on  the  wall 
over  the  gate-way,  the  shadows  of  the  two  clever  ones  in  con- 
versation above.  That  she  then  went  up  stairs  with  her 
shoes  in  her  hand,  partly  to  be  near  the  clever  ones  as  a 
match  for  most  ghosts,  and  partly  to  hear  what  they  were 
talking  about. 

^'  None  of  your  nonsense  with  me,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch. 
"  I  won't  take  it  from  you." 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  dreamed  that  she  stood  behind  the  door, 
which  was  just  ajar,  and  most  distinctly  heard  her  husband 
say  these  bold  words. 

"  Flintwinch,"  returned  Mrs.  Clennam,  in  her  usual  strong 
low  voice,  "  there  is  a  demon  of  anger  in  you.  Guard  against 
it." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  there's  one  or  a  dozen,"  said  Mr. 
Flintwinch,  forcibly  suggesting  in  his  tone  that  the  higher 
number  was  nearer  the  mark.     "  If  there  was  fifty,   they 


i86  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

should  all  say,  None  of  your  nonsense  with  me,  I  won*t  take 
it  from  you — I'd  make  'em  say  it,  whether  they  liked  it  or 
not." 

"  What  have  I  done,  you  wrathful  man  ?  "  her  strong  voice 
asked. 

"  Done  !  "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch.  "  Dropped  down  upon 
me." 

"  If  you  mean,  remonstrated  with  you " 

*'  Don't  put  words  in  my  mouth  that  I  don't  mean,"  said 
Jeremiah,  sticking  to  his  figurative  expression  with  tenacious 
and  impenetrable  obstinacy  :  "  I  mean  dropped  down  upon 
me." 

"  I   remonstrated  with  you,"  she  began  again,  "  because 

"  I  won't  have  it  !  "  cried  Jeremiah.  "  You  dropped  down 
upon  me." 

"  I  dropped  down  upon  you,  then,  you  ill-conditioned 
man  "  (Jeremiah  chuckled  at  having  forced  her  to  adopt  his 
phrase),  "  for  having  been  needlessly  significant  to  Arthur 
that  morning.  I  have  a  right  to  complain  of  it  as  almost  a 
breach  of  confidence.     You  did  not  mean  it " 

"  I  won't  have  it  !  "  interposed  the  contradictory  Jeremiah, 
flinging  back  the  concession.     "  I  did  mean  it." 

*^  I  suppose  I  must  leave  you  to  speak  in  soliloquy  if  you 
choose,"  she  replied,  -after  a  pause  that  seemed  an  angry  one. 
"  It  is  useless  my  addressing  myself  to  a  rash  and  head- 
strong old  man  who  has  a  set  purpose  not  to  hear  me." 

^'  Now,  I  won't  take  that  from  you  either,"  said  Jeremiah. 
"  I  have  no  such  purpose,  I  have  told  you  I  did  mean  it. 
Do  you  wish  to  know  why  I  meant  it,  you  rash  and  head- 
strong old  woman  ?  " 

^^  After  all,  you  only  restore  me  my  own  words,"  she  said, 
struggling  with  her  indignation.     "  Yes." 

"  This  is  why,  then.  Because  you  hadn't  cleared  his  father 
to  him,  and  you  ought  to  have  done  it.  Because,  before  you 
went  into  any  tantrum  about  yourself,  who  are " 

"  Hold  there,  Flintwinch  !  "  she  cried  out  in  a  changed 
voice  :  "  you  may  go  a  word  too  far." 

The  old  man  seemed  to  think  so.  There  was  another 
pause,  and  he  had  altered  his  position  in  the  room,  when  he 
spoke  again  more  mildly  : 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  why  it  was.  Because,  before  you 
took  your  own  part,  I  thought  you  ought  to  have  taken  the 
part  of  Arthur's  father,     Arthur's  father  !    I  had  no  particu^ 


LITTLE  "DORRIT.  187 

lar  love  for  Arthur's  father.  I  served  Arthur's  father's 
uncle,  in  this  house,  when  Arthur's  father  was  not  much  above 
me — was  poorer  as  far  as  his  pocket  went — and  when  his 
uncle  might  as  soon  left  me  his  heir  as  have  left  him.  He 
starved  in  the  parlor,  and  I  starved  in  the  kitchen;  that  was 
the  principal  difference  in  our  positions;  there  was  not  much 
more  than  a  flight  of  break-neck  stairs  between  us.  I  never 
took  to  him  in  those  times;  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  took  to 
him  greatly  at  any  time.  He  was  an  undecided,  irresolute 
chap,  who  had  had  every  thing  but  his  orphan  life  scared 
out  of  him  when  he  was  young.  And  when  he  brought  you 
home  here,  the  wife  his  uncle  had  named  for  him,  I  didn't 
need  to  look  at  you  twice  (you  were  a  good-looking  woman 
at  that  time)  to  know  who'd  be  master.  You  have  stood  of 
your  own  strength  ever  since.  Stand  of  your  own  strength 
now.     Don't  lean  against  the  dead." 

"  I  do  not — as  you  call  it — lean  against  the  dead." 

"  But  you  had  a  mind  to  do  it,  if  I  had  submitted,"  growled 
Jeremiah,  "  and  that's  why  you  drop  down  upon  me.  You 
can't  forget  that  I  didn't  submit.  I  suppose  you  are  aston- 
ished that  I  should  consider  it  Avorth  my  while  to  have  justice 
done  to  Arthur's  father  ?  Hey  ?  It  doesn't  matter  whether  you 
answer  or  not,  because  I  know  you  are,  and  you  know  you 
are.  Come,  then,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is.  I  may  be  a  bit  of 
an  oddity  in  point  of  temper,  but  this  is  my  temper — I  can't 
let  any  body  have  entirely  their  own  way.  You  are  a  deter- 
mined woman,  and  a  clever  woman  ;  and  when  you  see  your 
purpose  before  you,  nothing  will  turn  you  from  it.  Who 
knows  that  better  than  I  do  ?  " 

"  Nothing  will  turn  me  from  it,  Flintwinch,  when  I  have 
justified  it  to  myself.     Add  that." 

"  Justified  it  to  yourself  ?  I  said  you  were  the  most  deter- 
mined woman  on  the  face  of  the  earth  (or  I  meant  to  say), 
and  if  you  are  determined  to  justify  any  object  you  entertain, 
of  course  you'll  do  it." 

^'  Man  !  I  justify  myself  by  the  authority  of  these  books," 
she  cried,  with  stern  emphasis,  and  appearing  from  the  sound 
that  followed  to  strike  the  dead-weight  of  her  arm  upon  the 
table. 

'^  Never  mind  that,"  returned  Jeremiah,  calmly,  "  we  won't 
enter  into  that  question  at  present.  However  that  may  be, 
you  carry  out  your  purposes,  and  you  make  every  thing  go 
down  before  them.  Now,  I  won't  go  down  before  them.  I 
have  been  faithful  to  you,  and  useful  to  you,   and  I  am 


1 88  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

attached  to  you.  But  I  can't  consent,  and  I  won't  consent, 
and  I  never  did  consent,  and  I  never  will  consent,  to  be  lost 
in  you.  Swallow  up  every  body  else,  and  welcome.  The 
peculiarity  of  my  temper  is,  ma'am,  that  I  won't  be  swallowed 
up  alive." 

Perhaps  this  had  originally  been  the  mainspring  of  the 
understanding  between  them.  Descrying  thus  much  of  force 
of  character  in  Mr.  Flintwinch,  perhaps  Mrs.  Clennam  had 
deemed  alliance  with  him  worth  her  while. 

*'  Enough  and  more  than  enough  of  the  subject,"  said 
she,  gloomily. 

*'  Unless  you  drop  down  upon  me  again,"  returned  the 
persistent  Flintwinch,  "  and  then  you  must  expect  to  hear  of 
it  again." 

Mistress  Affery  dreamed  that  the  figure  of  her  lord  here 
began  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  as  if  to  cool  his  spleen, 
and  that  she  ran  away ;  but  that,  as  he  did  not  issue  forth 
when  she  had  stood  listening  and  trembling  in  the  shadowy 
hall  a  little  time,  she  crept  up  stairs  again,  impelled  as  before 
by  ghosts  and  curiosity,  and  once  more  cowered  outside  the 
door. 

^*  Please  to  light  the  candle,  Flintwinch,"  Mrs.  Clennam 
was  saying,  apparently  wishing  to  draw  him  back  into  their 
usual  tone.  '*  It  is  nearly  time  for  tea.  Little  Dorrit  is 
coming,  and  will  find  me  in  the  dark." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  lighted  the  candle  briskly,  and  said,  as  he 
put  it  down  upon  the  table  : 

^'  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  Little  Dorrit  ?  Is  she  to 
come  to  work  here  forever  ?  To  come  to  tea  here  forever  ? 
To  come  backward  and  forward  here,  in  the  same  way,  for- 
ever ?" 

^'  How  can  you  talk  about  *  forever  '  to  a  maimed  creature 
like  me  ?  Are  we  not  all  cut  down  like  the  grass  of  the  field, 
and  was  not  I  shorn  by  the  scythe  many  years  ago :  since 
when,  I  have  been  lying  here,  waiting  to  be  gathered  into  the 
barn  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay  !  But  since  you  have  been  lying  here — not  near 
dead — nothing  like  it — numbers  of  children  and  young 
people,  blooming  women,  strong  men,  and  what  not,  have 
been  cut  down  and  carried  ;  and  still  here  are  you,  you  see, 
not  much  changed  after  all.  Your  time  and  mine  may  be  a 
long  one  yet.  When  I  say  forever,  I  mean  (though  I  am  not 
poetical)  through  all  our  time."  Mr.  Flintwinch  gave  this 
explanation  with  great  calmness,  and  calmly  waited  for  an 
answer. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  189 

"  So  long  as  Little  Dorrit  is  quiet,  and  industrious,  and 
stands  in  need  of  the  slight  help  I  can  give  her,  and  deserves 
it  ;  so  long,  I  suppose,  unless  she  withdraws  of  her  own  act, 
she  will  continue  to  come  here,  I  being  spared." 

*'  Nothing  more  than  that  ?  "  said  Flintwinch,  stroking  his 
mouth  and  chin. 

^*  What  should  there  be  more  than  that  !  What  could 
there  be  more  than  that  !  "  she  ejaculated,  in  her  sternly 
wondering  way. 

Mrs.  Flintwinch  dreamed,  that,  for  the  space  of  a  minute 
or  two,  they  remained  looking  at  each  other  with  the  candle 
between  them,  and  that  she  somehow  derived  an  impression 
that  they  looked  at  each  other  fixedly. 

**  Do  you  happen  to  know,  Mrs.  Clennam,"  Affery's  liege 
lord  then  demanded  in  a  much  lower  voice,  and  with  an 
amount  of  expression  that  seemed  quite  out  of  proportion  to 
the  simple  purpose  of  his  words,  *^  where  she  lives  ?  '* 

^'No." 

"  Would  you — now,  would  you  like  to  know  ?  '*  said  Jere- 
miah, with  a  pounce  as  if  he  had  sprung  upon  her. 

'*  If  I  cared  to  know,  I  should  know  already.  Could  I  not 
have  asked  her,  any  day  ?  " 

^'  Then  you  don't  care  to  know  ?  '* 

*' I  do  not." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  having  expelled  a  long  significant  breath, 
said  with  his  former  emphasis,  **  For  I  have  accidentally — 
mind  ! — found  out." 

**  Wherever  she  lives,*'  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  speaking  in 
one  unmodulated  hard  voice,  and  separating  her  words  as 
distinctly  as  if  she  were  reading  them  off  from  separate  bits 
of  metal  that  she  took  up  one  by  one,  "  she  has  made  a  secret 
of  it,  and  she  shall  always  keep  her  secret  from  me." 

**  After  all,  perhaps  you  would  rather  not  have  known  the 
fact,  anyhow  ?"  said  Jeremiah;  and  he  said  it  with  a  twist, 
as  if  his  words  had  come  out  of  him  in  his  own  wry 
shape. 

**  Flintwinch,"  said  his  mistress  and  partner,  flashing  into 
a  sudden  energy  that  made  Affery  start,  "  why  do  you  goad 
me  ?  Look  round  this  room.  If  it  is  any  compensation  for 
my  long  confinement  within  these  narrow  limits — not  that  I 
complain  of  being  afilicted;  you  know  I  never  complain  of 
that — if  it  is  anj^  compensation  to  me  for  my  long  confine- 
ment to  this  room,  that  while  I  am  shut  up  from  all  pleasant 
change,  I  am  also  shut  up  from  the  knowledge  of  some  things 


19<5  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  I  may  prefer  to  avoid  knowing,  why  should  you,  of  all 
men,  grudge  me  that  relief  ?  " 

**  I  don't  grudge  it  to  you,"  returned  Jeremiah. 

".Then  say  no  more.  Say  no  more.  Let  Little  Dorrit 
keep  her  secret  from  me,  and  do  you  keep  it  from  me  also. " 
Let  her  come  and  go,  unobserved  and  unquestioned.  Let  me 
suffer,  and  let  me  have  what  alleviation  belongs  to  my  condi- 
tion. Is  it  so  much,  that  you  torment  me  like  an  evil 
spirit  ?  " 

"  I  asked  you  a  question.     That's  all." 

"  I  have  answered  it.  So,  say  no  more.  Say  no  more." 
Here  the  sound  of  the  wheeled  chair  was  heard  upon  the 
floor,  and  Affery's  bell  rang  with  a  hasty  jerk. 

More  afraid  of  her  husband  at  the  moment  than  of  the 
mysterious  sound  in  the  kitchen,  Affery  crept  away  as  lightly 
and  as  quickly  as  she  could,  descended  the  kitchen  stairs 
almost  as  rapidly  as  she  had  ascended  them,  resumed  her  seat 
before  the  fire,  tucked  up  her  skirt  again,  and  finally  threw 
her  apron  over  her  head.  Then  the  bell  rang  once  more, 
and  then  once  more,  and  then  kept  on  ringing;  in  despite  of 
which  importunate  summons,  Affery  still  sat  behind  her 
apron,  recovering  her  breath. 

At  last  Mr.  Flintwinch  came  shuffling  down  the  staircase 
into  the  hall,  muttering  and  calling  "  Affery  woman!  "  all  the 
way.  Affery  still  remaining  behind  her  apron,  he  came 
stumbling  down  the  kitchen  stairs,  candle  in  hand,  sidled  up 
to  her,  twitched  her  apron  off,  and  roused  her. 

"Oh  Jeremiah  I  "  cried  Affery,  waking.  "  What  a  start 
you  gave  me  !  " 

*'  What  have  you  been  doing,  woman?  "  inquired  Jeremiah. 
"  You've  been  rung  for  fifty  times." 

"  Oh  Jeremiah,"  said  Mistress  Affery,  "  I  have  been 
a-dreaming  !  " 

Reminded  of  her  former  achievement  in  that  way,  Mr. 
Flintwinch  held  the  candle  to  her  head,  as  if  he  had  some 
idea  of  lighting  her  up,  for  the  illumination   of  the  kitchen. 

"  Don't  you  know  it's  her  tea-time  ?  "  he  demanded  with 
a  vicious  grin,  and  giving  one  of  the  legs  of  Mistress 
Affery's  chair  a  kick. 

_"  Jeremiah?  Tea-time?  I  don't  know  what's  come  to 
me.  But  I  got  such  a  dreadful  turn,  Jeremiah,  before  I  went 
— off  a-dreaming,  that  I  think  it  must  be  that." 

*'  Yoogh  !  Sleepy-head  !  "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  "  what 
are  you  talking  about  ?  '* 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  191 

**  Such  a  strange  noise,  Jeremiah,  and  such  a  curious 
movement.     In  the  kitchen  here — just  here." 

Jeremiah  held  up  his  light  and  looked  at  the  blackened 
ceiling,  held  down  his  light  and  looked  at  the  damp  stone 
"Boor,  turned  round  with  his  light  and  looked  about  at  the 
spotted  and  blotched  walls. 

*'  Rats,  cats,  water  drains,"  said  Jeremiah. 

Mistress  Affery  negatived  each  with  a  shake  of  her  head. 
"  No,  Jeremiah;  I  have  felt  it  before.  I  have  felt  it  up  stairs 
and  once  on  the  staircase,  as  I  was  going  from  her  room  to 
ours  in  the  night — a  rustle  and  a  sort  of  trembling  touch 
behind  me." 

"  Affery,  my  woman,*' said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  grimly,  after 
advancing  his  nose  to  that  lady's  lips  as  a  test  for  the  detec- 
tion of  spirituous  liquors,  **  if  you  don't  get  tea  pretty  quick, 
old  woman,  you'll  become  sensible  of  a  rustle  and  a  touch 
that'll  send  you  flying  to  the  other  end  of  the  kitchen." 

This  prediction  stimulated  Mrs.  Flintwinch  to  bestir  her- 
self, and  to  hasten  up  stairs  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  chamber.  But 
for  all  that,  she  now  began  to  entertain  a  settled  conviction 
that  there  was  something  wrong  in  the  gloomy  house.  Hence- 
forth, she  was  never  at  peace  in  it  after  daylight  departed  ; 
and  never  went  up  or  down  stairs  in  the  dark  without 
having  her  apron  over  her  head,  lest  she  should  see  some- 
thing. 

What  with  these  ghostly  apprehensions,  and  her  singular 
dreams,  Mrs.  Flintwinch  fell  that  evening  into  a  haunted 
state  of  mind,  from  which  it  may  be  long  before  this  present 
narrative  descries  any  trace  of  her  recovery.  In  the  vague- 
ness and  indistinctness  of  all  her  new  experiences  and  per- 
ceptions, as  every  thing  about  her  was  mysterious  to  herself, 
she  began  to  be  mysterious  to  others  ;  and  became  as  diffi- 
cult to  be  made  out  to  any  body's  satisfaction,  as  she  found 
the  house  and  every  thing  in  it  difficult  to  make  out  to  her 
own. 

She  had  not  yet  finished  preparing  Mrs.  Clennam's  tea 
when  the  soft  knock  came  to  the  door  which  always 
announced  Little  Dorrit.  Mistress  Affery  looked  on  at  Lit- 
tle Dorrit  taking  off  her  homely  bonnet  in  the  hall,  and  at 
Mr.  Flintwinch  scraping  his  jaws  and  contemplating  her  in 
silence,  as  expecting  some  wonderful  consequence  to  ensue 
which  would  frighten  her  out  of  her  five  wits  or  blow  them 
all  three  to  pieces. 

After  tea  there  came  another  knock  at  the  door,  announc- 


192  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ing  Arthur.  Mistress  Affery  went  down  to  let  him  in,  and  he 
said  on  entering,  *'  Affery,  I  am  glad  it's  you.  I  want  to  ask 
you  a  question."  Affery  immediately  replied,  '*  For  good- 
ness sake  don't  ask  me  nothing,  Arthur  !  I  am  frightened 
out  of  one  half  of  my  life,  and  dreamed  out  of  the  other.  • 
Don't  ask  m  nothing  !  I  don't  know  which  is  which,  or 
what  is  what  *' — and  immediately  started  .away  from  him, 
and  came  hear  him  no  more. 

Mistress  Affery  having  no  taste  for  reading,  and  no  suffi- 
cient light  for  needle-work  in  the  subdued  room,  supposing 
her  to  have  the  inclination,  now  sat  every  night  in  the  dim- 
ness from  which  she  had  momentarily  emerged  on  the  even- 
ing of  Arthur  Clennam's  return,  occupied  with  crowds  of 
wild  speculations  and  suspicions  respecting  her  mistress  and 
her  husband,  and  the  noises  in  the  house.  When  the 
ferocious  devotional  exercises  were  engaged  in,  these 
speculations  would  distract  Mistress  Affery's  eyes  toward 
the  door,  as  if  she  expected  some  dark  form  to  appear  at 
those  propitious  moments,  and  make  the  party  one  too 
many. 

Otherwise,  Affery  never  said  or  did  any  thing  to  attract 
the  attention  of  the  two  clever  ones  toward  her  in  any 
marked  degree,  except  on  certain  occasions,  generally  at 
about  the  quiet  hour  toward  bed-time,  when  she  would  sud- 
denly dart  out  of  her  dim  corner,  and  whisper  with  a  face 
of  terror,  to  Mr.  Flintwinch  reading  the  paper  near  Mrs. 
Clennam's  little  table  : 

"  There,  Jeremiah  !     Now  !     What's  that  noise  !  ** 

Then  the  noise,  if  there  were  any,  would  have  ceased,  and 
Mr.  Flintwinch  would  snarl,  turning  upon  her  as  if  she  had 
cut  him  down  that  moment  against  his  will,  *'  Affery,  old 
woman,  you  shall  have  a  dose,  old  woman,  such  a  dose  ! 
You  have  been  dreaming  again  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

nobody's  weakness. 

The  time  being  come  for  the  renewal  of  his  acquaintance 
with  the  Meagles  family,  Clennam,  pursuant  to  contract  made 
between  himself  and  Mr.  Meagles,  within  the  precincts  of 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  turned  his  face  on  a  certain  Saturday 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  193 

toward  Twickenham,  where  Mr.  Meagles  had  a  cottage  resi- 
dence of  his  own.  The  weather  being  fine  and  dry,  and  any- 
English  road  abounding  in  interest  for  him  who  had  been  so 
long  away,  he  sent  his  valise  on  by  the  coach,  and  set  out  to 
walk.  A  walk  was  in  itself  anew  enjoyment  to  him,  and  one 
that  had  rarely  diversified  his  life  afar  off. 

He  went  by  Fullham  and  Putney,  for  the  pleasure  of  stroll- 
ing over  the  heath.  It  was  bright  and  shining  there  ;  and 
when  he  found  himself  so  far  on  his  road  to  Twickenham, 
he  found  himself  a  long  way  on  his  road  to  a  number  of 
airier  and  less  substantial  destinations.  They  had  risen 
before  him,  fast,  in  the  healthful  exercise  and  the  pleasant 
road.  It  is  not  easy  to  walk  alone  in  the  country  without 
musing  upon  something.  And  he  had  plenty  of  unsettled 
subjects  to  meditate  upon,  though  he  had  been  walking  to 
the  Land's  End. 

First,  there  was  the  subject  seldom  absent  from  his  mind, 
the  question,  what  he  was  to  do  henceforth  in  life  ;  to  what 
occupation  he  should  devote  himself,  and  in  what  direction 
he  had  best  seek  it.  He  was  far  from  rich,  and  every  day 
of  indecision  and  inaction  made  his  inheritance  a  source  of 
greater  anxiety  to  him.  As  often  as  he  began  to  consider  how 
to  increase  this  inheritance,  or  to  lay  it  by,  so  often  his  mis- 
giving that  there  was  some  one  with  an  unfastened  claim 
upon  his  justice,  returned  ;  and  that  alone  was  a  subject  to 
outlast  the  longest  walk.  Again  there  was  the  subject  of  his 
relations  with  his  mother,  which  were  now  upon  an  equable 
and  peaceful  but  never  confidential  footing,  and  whom  he 
saw  several  times  a  week.  Little  Dorrit  was  a  leading  and 
constant  subject  ;  for  the  circumstances  of  his  life,  united 
to  those  of  her  own  story,  presented  the  little  creature  to 
him  as  the  only  person  between  whom  and  himself  there 
were  ties  of  innocent  reliance  on  one  hand,  and  affectionate 
protection  on  the  other  ;  ties  of  compassion,  respect,  unsel- 
fish interest,  gratitude,  and  pity.  Thinking  of  her,  and  of 
the  possibility  of  her  father's  release  from  prison  by  the  un- 
barring hand  of  death — the  only  change  of  circumstance 
he  could  foresee  that  might  enable  him  to  be  such  a  friend  to 
her  as  he  wished  to  be,  by  altering  her  whole  manner  of  life, 
smoothing  her  rough  road  and  giving  her  a  home — he  re- 
garded her,  in  that  perspective,  as  his  adopted  daughter,  his 
poor  child  of  the  Marshalsea  hushed  to  rest.  If  there  were  a 
last  subject  in  his  thoughts,  and  it  lay  toward  Twickenham, 
its  form  was  so  indefinite  that  it  was  little  more  than  the  per- 


/94  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

vading  atmosphere  in  which  these  other  subjects  floated 
before  him. 

He  had  crossed  the  heath  and  was  leaving  it  behind,  when 
he  gained  upon  a  figure  which  had  been  in  advance  of  him 
for  some  time,  and  which,  as  he  gained  upon  it,  he  thought 
he  knew.  He  derived  this  impression  from  something  in 
the  turn  of  the  head,  and  in  the  figure's  action,  of  consider- 
ation as  it  went  on  at  a  sufficiently  sturdy  walk.  But  when 
the  man — for  it  was  a  man's  figure — pushed  his  hat  up  at 
the  back  of  his  head,  and  stopped  to  consider  some  object 
before  him,  he  knew  it  to  be  Daniel  Doyce. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Doyce  ? "  said  Clennam,  overtaking 
him.  '*  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again,  and  in  a  healthier  place 
than  the  circumlocution  office." 

"  Ha  !  Mr.  Meagles's  friend  !  "  exclaimed  that  public 
criminal,  coming  out  of  some  mental  combination  he  had 
been  making,  and  offering  his  hand.  "  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  sir.     Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  forget  your  name  ?  *' 

*^  Readily.  It's  not  a  celebrated  name.  It's  not  Bar- 
nacle." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Daniel,  laughing.  **  And  now  I  know  what 
it  is.     It's  Clennam.     How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Clennam  ?" 

**  I  have  some  hope,"  said  Arthur,  as  they  walked  on  to- 
gether, "  that  we  may  be  going  to  the  same  place,  Mr. 
Doyce." 

"  Meaning  Twickenham  ?  "  returned  Daniel.  "  I  am  glad 
to  hear  it." 

They  were  soon  quite  intimate,  and  lightened  the  way 
with  a  variety  of  conversation.  The  ingenious  culprit  was  a 
man  of  great  modesty  and  good  sense  ;  and,  though  a  plain 
man,  had  been  too  much  accustomed  to  combine  what  was 
original  and  daring  in  conception  with  what  was  patient  and 
minute  in  execution,  to  be  by  any  means  an  ordinary  man. 
It  was  at  first  difficult  to  lead  him  to  speak  about  himself, 
and  he  put  off  Arthur's  advances  in  that  direction  by  admit- 
ting slightly,  oh  yes,  he  had  done  this,  and  he  had  done  that, 
and  such  a  thing  was  of  his  making,  and  such  another  thing 
was  his  discovery,  but  it  was  his  trade,  you  see,  his  trade  ; 
until,  as  he  gradually  became  assured  that  his  companion 
had  a  real  interest  in  his  account  of  himself,  he  frankly 
yielded  to  it.  Then  it  appeared  that  he  was  the  son  of  a 
north-country  blacksmith,  and  had  originally  been  appren- 
ticed by  his  widowed  mother  to  a  lock-maker  ;  that  he  had 
*^  struck  out  a  few  little  things  "  at  the    lock-maker's,  which 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  195 

had  led  to  his  being  released  from  his  indentures  with  a 
present,  which  present  had  enabled  him  to  gratify  his  ar- 
dent wish  to  bind  himself  to  a  working  engineer,  under 
whom  he  had  labored  hard,  learned  hard,  and  lived  hard, 
seven  years.  His  time  being  out,  he  had  "  worked  in  the 
shop  "  at  weekly  wages  seven  or  eight  years  more  ;  and  had 
then  betaken  himself  to  the  banks  of  the  Clyde,  where  he 
had  studied,  and  filed,  and  hammered,  and  improved  his 
knowledge,  theoretic,  and  practical,  for  six  or  seven  years 
more.  There  he  had  had  an  offer  to  go  to  Lyons,  which  he 
had  accepted  ;  and  from  Lyons  had  been  engaged  to  go  to 
Germany,  and  -  Germany  had  had  an  offer  to  go  to  St. 
Petersburg,  and  there  had  done  very  well  indeed — never  bet- 
ter. However,  he  had  naturally  felt  a  preference  for  his  own 
country,  and  a  wish  to  gain  distinction  there,  and  to  do  what- 
ever service  he  could  do,  there  rather  than  elsewhere.  And 
so  he  had  come  home.  And  so  at  home  he  had  established 
himself  in  business,  and  had  invented  and  executed,  and 
worked  his  way  on,  until,  after  a  dozen  years  of  constant 
suit  and  service,  he  had  been  enrolled  in  the  Great  British 
Legion  of  Honor,  the  legion  of  the  rebuffed  of  the  circum- 
locution office,  and  had  been  decorated  with  the  Great 
British  Order  of  Merit,  the  Order  of  the  Disorder  of  the 
Barnacles  and  Stiltstalkings. 

^*  It  is  much  to  be  regretted,"  said  Clennam,  "  that  you 
ever  turned  your  thoughts  that  way,  Mr.  Doyce." 

"  True,  sir,  true,  to  a  certain  extent.  But  what  is  a  man 
to  do  ?  If  he  has  the  misfortune  to  strike  out  something 
serviceable  to  the  nation,  he  must  foUov/ where  it  leads  him." 

"  Hadn't  he  better  let  it  go  ?  "  ask^d  Clennam. 

*^  He  can't  do  it,"  said  Doyce,  shaking  his  head,  with  a 
thoughtful  smile.  "  It's  not  put  into  his  head  to  be  buried. 
It's  put  into  his  head  to  be  made  useful.  You  hold  your  life 
on  the  condition  that  to  the  last  you  shall  struggle  hard 
for  it.  Every  man  holds  a  discovery  on  the  same 
terms." 

*^  That  is  to  say,"  said  Arthur,  with  a  growing  admiration 
of  his  quiet  companion,  *'  you  are  not  fully  discouraged  even 
now  ?  " 

'*  I  have  no  right  to  be,  if  I  am,"  returned  the  other. 
"  The  thing  is  as  true  as  it  ever  was." 

When  they  had  walked  a  little  way  in  silence,  Clennam, 
at  once,  to  change  the  direct  point  of  their  conversation,  and 
not  to  change  it  too  abruptly,  asked  Mr.  Doyce  if  he  had  any 


196  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

partner  in  his  business,  to  relieve  him  of  a  portion  x3f  its 
anxieties  ? 

**  No,"  he  returned,  ^'not  at  present.  I  had  when  I  first 
entered  on. it,  and  a  good  man  he  was.  But  he  has  been  dead 
some  years  ;  and  as  I  could  not  easily  take  to  the  notion  of 
another  when  I  lost  him,  I  bought  his  share  for  myself,  and 
have  gone  on  by  myself  ever  since.  And  here's  another 
thing,"  he  said,  stopping  for  a  moment,  with  a  good-humored 
laugh  in  his  eyes,  and  laying  his  closed  right  hand,  with  its 
peculiar  suppleness  of  thumb,  on  Clennam's  arm,  '*  no  in- 
ventor can  be  a  man  of  business,  you  know." 

"  No  ?"  said  Clennam. 

^'  Why,  so  the  men  of  business  say,"  he  answered,  resuming 
the  walk  and  laughing  outright.  *'  I  don't  know  why  we 
unfortunate  creatures  should  be  supposed  to  want  common 
sense,  but  it  is  generally  taken  for  granted  that  we  do.  Even 
the  best  friend  I  have  in  the  world,  our  excellent  friend  over 
yonder,"  said  Doyce,  nodding  toward  Twickenham,  ^^  ex- 
tends a  sort  of  protection  to  me,  don't  you  know,  as  a  man 
not  quite  able  to  take  care  of  himself." 

Arthur  Clennam  could  not  help  joining  in  the  good- 
humored  laugh,  for  he  recognized  the  truth  of  the  description. 

"  So  I  find  that  I  must  have  a  partner  who  is  a  man  of 
business  and  not  guilty  of  any  inventions,"  said  Daniel 
Doyce,  taking  off  his  hat  to  pass  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
"  if  it's  only  in  deference  to  the  current  opinion,  and  to  up- 
hold the  credit  of  the  works.  I  don't  think  he'll  find  that 
I  have  been  very  remiss  or  confused  in  my  way  of  conducting 
them  ;  but  that's  for  him  to  say — whoever  he  is — not  forme." 

'^  You  have  not  chosen  him  yet,  then  ? " 

"  No,  sir,  no.  I  have  only  just  come  to  a  decision  to  take 
one.  The  fact  is,  there's  more  to  do  than  there  used  to  be, 
and  the  works  are  enough  for  me,  as  I  grow  older.  What 
with  the  books  and  correspondence,  and  foreign  journeys, 
for  which  a  principal  is  necessary,  I  can't  do  all.  I  am  going 
to  talk  over  the  best  way  of  negotiating  the  matter,  if  I  find 
a  spare  half-hour  between  this  and  Monday  morning,  with 
my — my  nurse  and  protector,"  said  Doyce,  with  laughing 
eyes  again.  ''  He's  a  sagacious  man  in  business,  and  has  had 
a  good  apprenticeship  to  it." 

After  this,  they  conversed  on  different  subjects  until  they 
arrived  at  their  journey's  end.  A  composed  and  unobtrusive 
self-sustainment  was  noticeable  in  Daniel  Doyce — a  calm 
knowledge  that  what  was  true  must  remain  true,  in  spite  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  197 

all  the  Barnacles  in  the  family  ocean,  and  would  be  just  the 
truth,  and  neither  more  nor  less,  when  even  that  sea  had  run 
dry — which  had  a  kind  of  greatness  in  it,  though  not  of  the 
official  quality. 

As  he  knew  the  house  well,  he  conducted  Arthur  to  it  by 
the  way  that  showed  it  to  the  best  advantage.  It  was  a 
charming  place  (none  the  worse  for  being  a  little  eccentric), 
on  the  road  by  the  river,  and  just  what  the  residence  of  the 
Meagles  family  ought  to  be.  It  stood  in  a  garden,  no  doubt 
as  fresh  and  beautiful  in  the  May  of  the  year,  as  Pet  now  was 
in  the  May  of  her  life  ;  and  it  was  defended  by  a  goodly  show 
of  handsome  trees  and  spreading  evergreens,  as  Pet  was  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles.  It  was  made  out  of  an  old  brick 
house,  of  which  a  part  had  been  altogether  pulled  down,  and 
another  part  had  been  changed  into  the  present  cottage  ;  so 
there  was  a  hale,  elderly  portion,  to  represent  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Meagles,  and  a  young  picturesque,  very  pretty  portion,  to  rep- 
resent Pet.  There  was  even  the  later  addition  of  a  conser- 
vatory sheltering  itself  against  it,  uncertain  of  hue  in  its  deep 
stained  glass,  and  in  its  more  transparent  portions  flashing  to 
the  sun's  rays,  now  like  fire,  and  now  like  harmless  water- 
drops;  which  might  have  stood  for  Tattycoram.  Within  view 
were  the  peaceful  river  and  the  ferry-boat,  to  moralize  to  all 
the  inmates,  saying  :  Young  or  old,  passionate  or  tranquil, 
chafing  or  content,  you,  thus  runs  the  current  always.  Let 
the  heart  swell  into  what  discord  it  will,  thus  plays  the  rip- 
pling water  on  the  prow  of  the  ferry-boat  ever  the  same  tune. 
Year  after  year,  so  much  allowance  for  the  drifting  of  the 
boat,  so  many  miles  an  hour  the  flowing  of  the  stream,  here 
the  rushes,  there  the  lilies,  nothing  uncertain  or  unquiet, 
upon  this  road  that  steadily  runs  away;  while  you  upon  your 
flowing  road  of  time,  are  so  capricious  and  distracted. 

The  bell  at  the  gate  had  scarcely  sounded  when  Mr.  Mea- 
gles came  out  to  receive  them.  Mr.  Meagles  had  scarcely 
come  out,  when  Mrs.  Meagles  came  out.  Mrs.  Meagles  had 
scarcely  come  out,  when  Pet  came  out.  Pet  had  scarcely 
come  out,  when  Tattycoram  came  out.  Never  had  visitors  a 
more  hospitable  reception. 

**  Here  we  are,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  ^' boxed  up, 
Mr.  Clennam,  within  our  own  home-limits,  as  if  we  were 
never  going  to  expand — that  is,  travel — again.  Not  like 
Marseilles,  eh  ?     No  allonging  and  marshonging  here  !  " 

**A  different  kind  of  beauty,  indeed!"  said  Clennam, 
looking  about  hira. 


198  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*'  But,  Lord  bless  me  !  "  cried  Mr.  Meagles,  rubbing  his 
hands  with  a  relish,  "  it  was  an  uncommonly  pleasant  thing 
being  in  quarantine,  wasn't  it  ?  Do  you  know  I  have  often 
wished  myself  back  again.     We  were  a  capital  party." 

This  was  Mr.  Meagles's  invariable  habit.  Always  to  ob- 
ject to  every  thing  while  he  was  traveling,  and  always  to 
want  to  get  back  to  it  when  he  was  not  traveling. 

^^  If  it  was  summer-time,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  which  I 
wish  it  was  on  your  account,  and  in  order  that  you  might  see 
the  place  at  its  best,  you  would  hardly  be  able  to  hear  your- 
self speak  for  birds.  Being  practical  people,  we  never  allow 
any  body  to  scare  the  birds;  and  the  birds,  being  practical 
people,  too,  come  about  us  in  myriads.  We  are  delighted  to 
see  you,  Clennam  (if  you'll  allow  me,  I  shall  drop  the  mis- 
ter); I  heartily  assure  you,  we  are  delighted." 

"  I  have  not  had  so  pleasant  a  greeting,"  said  Clennam — 
then  he  recalled  what  Little  Dorrit  had  said  to  him  in  his 
own  room,  and  faithfully  added,  "except  once — since  we  last 
walked  to  and  fro,  looking  down  at  the  Mediterranean." 

"  Ah  !  "  returned  Mr.  Meagles.  "  Something  like  a  look 
out,  that  was,  wasn't  it  ?  I  don't  want  a  military  government, 
but  I  shouldn't  mind  a  little  allonging  and  marshonging — 
just  a  dash  of  it — in  this  neighborhood  sometimes.  It's 
devilish  still." 

Bestowing  this  eulogium  on  the  retired  character  of  his 
retreat  with  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head,  Mr.  Meagles  led 
the  way  into  the  house.  It  was  just  large  enough  and  no 
more;  was  as  pretty  within  as  it  was  without,  and  v/as  per- 
fectly well  arranged  and  comfortable.  Some  traces  of  the  mi- 
gratory habits  of  the  family  were  to  be  observed  in  the  cov- 
ered frames  and  furniture,  and  wrapped-up  hangings;  but  it 
was  easy  to  see  that  it  was  one  of  Mr.  Meagles's  whims  to 
have  the  cottage  always  kept  in  their  absence,  as  if  they  were 
always  coming  back  the  day  after  to-morrow.  Of  articles  col- 
lected on  his  various  expeditions,  there  were  such  a  vast  mis- 
cellany that  it  was  like  the  dwelling  of  an  amiable  corsair. 
There  were  antiquities  from  central  Italy,  made  by  the  best 
modern  houses  in  that  department  of  industry ;  bits  of  mummy 
from  Egypt  (and  perhaps  Birmingham);  model  gondolas  from 
Venice;  model  villages  from  Switzerland;  morsels  of  tes- 
selated  pavement  from  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  like  pet- 
rified minced  veal;  ashes  out  of  tombs,  and  lava  out  of  Ve* 
suvius;  Spanish  fans,  Spezzian  straw  hats,  Moorish  slippers, 
Tuscan    hair-pins,    Carrara  sculpture,   Trastaverini   scarfs, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  199 

Genoese  velvets  and  filagree,  Neapolitan  coral,  Geneva  jew- 
elry, Roman  cameos,  Arab  lanterns,  rosaries  blest  all  round 
by  the  pope  himself,  and  an  infinite  variety  of  lumber.  There 
were  views,  like  and  unlike,  of  a  multitude  of  places;  and 
there  was  one  little  picture-room  devoted  to  a  few  of  the 
regular  sticky  old  saints,  with  sinews  like  whipcord,  hair  like 
Neptune's,  wrinkles  like  tattooing,  and  such  coats  of  varnish 
that  every  holy  personage  served  for  a  fly-trap,  and  became 
what  is  now  called  in  the  vulgar  tongue  a  Catch-em-alive  O. 
Of  these  pictorial  acquisitions  Mr.  Meagle  spoke  in  the  usual 
manner.  He  was  no  judge,  he  said,  except  of  what  pleased 
himself;  he  had  picked  them  up,  dirt  cheap,  knd  people  had 
considered  them  rather  fine.  One  man,  who  at  any  rate  ought 
to  know  something  of  the  subject,  had  declared  that  "  Sage, 
Reading  "  (a  specially  oily  old  gentleman  in  a  blanket,  with  a 
swan's-down  tippet  for  a  beard,  and  a  web  of  cracks  all  over 
him  like  rich  pie-crust),  to  be  a  fine  Guercino.  As  for  Sebas- 
tian del  Piombo  there,  you  would  judge  for  yourself  ;  if  it 
were  not  his  later  manner,  the  question  was.  Who  was  it  ? 
Titian,  that  might  or  might  not  be — perhaps  he  had  only 
touched  it.  Daniel  Doyce  said  perhaps  he  hadn't  touched 
it,  but  Mr.  Meagles  rather  declined  to  overhear  the  remark. 

When  he  had  shown  all  his  spoils,  Mr.  Meagles  took  them 
into  his  own  snug  room  overlooking  the  lawn,  which  was 
fitted  up  in  part  like  a  dressing-room  and  in  part  like  an 
office,  and  in  which,  upon  a  kind  of  counter-desk,  were  a 
pair  of  brass  scales  for  weighing  gold,  and  a  scoop  for 
shoveling  out  money. 

"  Here  they  are,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  I  stood 
behind  these  two  articles  five-and-thirty  years  running,  when 
I  no  more  thought  of  gadding  about  than  I  now  think  of — 
staying  at  home.  When  I  left  the  bank  for  good,  I  asked 
for  them,  and  brought  them  away  with  me.  I  mention  it 
at  once,  or  you  might  suppose  that  I  sit  in  my  counting- 
house  (as  Pet  says  I  do),  like  the  king  in  the  poem  of  the 
four-and-twenty  blackbirds,  counting  out  my  money." 

Clennam's  eyes  had  strayed  to  a  natural  picture  on  the 
wall,  of  two  pretty  little  girls  with  their  arms  intwined. 
"  Yes,  Clennam,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  in  a  lower  voice.  ''  There 
they  both  are.  It  was  taken  some  seventeen  years  ago.  As 
\  often  say  to  mother,  they  were  babies  then." 

"  Their  names  ?  "  said  Arthur. 

*'Ah,  to  be  sure  !  You  have  never  heard  any  name  but 
Pet.     Pet  s  name  is  Minnie  ;  her  sister's,  Lillie." 


200  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Should  you  have  known,  Mr.  Clennam,  that  one  of  them 
was  meant  for  me  ?  "  asked  Pet  herself,  now  standing  in  the 
doorway. 

**  I  might  have  thought  that  both  of  them  were  meant  for 
you,  both  are  still  so  like  you.  Indeed,"  said  Clennam, 
glancing  from  the  fair  original  to  the  picture  and  back,  *'  I 
can  not  even  now  say  which  is  not  your  portrait." 

"  D'ye  hear  that,  mother  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Meaglesto  his  wife, 
who  had  followed  her  daughter.  "  It's  always  the  same, 
Clennam  ;  nobody  can  decide.  The  child  to  your  left  is 
Pet." 

The  picture  happened  to  be  near  a  looking-glass.  As 
Arthur  looked  at  it  again,  he  saw  by  the  reflection  of  the  mir- 
ror, Tattycoram  stop  in  passing  outside  the  door,  listen  to 
what  was  going  on,  and  pass  away  with  an  angry  and  con- 
temptuous frown  upon  her  face  that  changed  its  beauty  into 
ugliness. 

**  But  come  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  You  have  had  a  long 
walk,  and  will  be  glad  to  get  your  boots  off.  As  to  Daniel 
here,  I  suppose  he'd  never  think  of  taking  his  boots  off, 
unless  we  showed  him  a  boot-jack." 

'^  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Daniel,  with  a  significant  smile  at 
Clennam. 

"  Oh  !  You  have  so  many  things  to  think  about," 
returned  Mr.  Meagles,  clapping  him  on  the  shoulder,  as  if 
his  weakness  must  not  be  left  to  itself  on  any  account. 
**  Figures,  and  wheels,  and  cogs,  and  levers,  and  screws,  and 
cylinders,  and  a  thousand  things." 

"  In  my  calling,"  said  Daniel,  amused,  ^' the  greater 
usually  includes  the  less.  But  never  mind,  never  mind  ! 
Whatever  pleases  you,  pleases  me." 

Clennam  could  not  help  speculating,  as  he  seated  himself 
in  his  room  by  the  fire,  whether  there  might  be  in  the  breast 
of  his  honest,  affectionate,  and  cordial  Mr.  Meagles,  any 
microscopic  portion  of  the  mustard-seed  that  had  sprung  up 
into  the  great  tree  of  the  circumlocution  office.  His  cur- 
ious sense  of  a  general  superiority  to  Daniel  Doyce,  which 
seemed  to  be  founded,  not  so  much  on  any  thing  in  Doyce's 
personal  character,  as  on  the  mere  fact  of  his  being  an  orig- 
inator and  a  man  out  of  the  beaten  track  of  other  men,  sug- 
gested the  idea.  It  might  have  occupied  him  until  he  went 
down  to  dinner  an  hour  afterward,  if  he  had  not  had 
another  question  to  consider,  which  had  been  in  his  mind 
so  long  ago  as  before  he  was  in  quarantine  at  Marseilles,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  201 

which  had  now  returned  to  it,  and  was  very  urgent  with  it. 
No  less  a  question  than  this  :  Whether  he  should  allow  him- 
self to  fall  in  love  with  Pet  ? 

He  was  twice  her  age.  (He  changed  the  leg  he  had 
crossed  over  the  other,  and  tried  the  calculation  again,  but 
could  not  bring  out  the  total  at  less.)  He  was  twice  her 
age.  Well  !  He  was  young  in  appearance,  young  in  health 
and  strength,  young  in  heart.  A  man  was  certainly  not  old 
at  forty  ;  and  many  men  were  not  in  circumstances  to  marry, 
or  did  not  marry,  until  they  had  attained  that  time  of  life. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  question  was,  not  what  he  thought 
of  the  point,  but  what  she  thought  of  it. 

He  believed  that  Mr.  Meagles  was  disposed  to  entertain  a 
ripe  regard  for  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  a  sincere 
regard  for  Mr.  Meagles  and  his  good  wife.  He  could  fore- 
see that  to  relinquish  this  beautiful  only  child,  of  whom  they 
were  so  fond,  to  any  husband,  would  be  a  trial  of  their  love 
which  perhaps  they  never  yet  had  had  the  fortitude  to  con- 
template. But  the  more  beautiful  and  winning  and  charm- 
ing she,  the  nearer  they  must  always  be  to  the  necessity  of 
approaching  it.  And  why  not  in  his  favor,  as  will  as  in 
another's  ? 

When  he  .lad  got  so  far,  it  came  again  into  his  head,  that 
the  question  v/as,  not  what  they  thought  of  it,  but  what  she 
thought  of  it. 

Arthur  Clennam  was  a  retiring  man,  with  a  sense  of  many 
deficiencies  ;  and  he  so  exalted  the  merits  of  the  beautiful 
Minnie  in  his  mind,  and  depressed  his  own,  that  when  he 
pinned  himself  to  this  point,  his  hopes  began  to  fail  him.  He 
came  to  the  final  resolutien,  as  he  made  himself  ready  for  din- 
ner, that  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  fall  in  love  with  Pet. 

They  were  only  five,  at  a  round  table,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant  indeed.  They  had  so  many  places  and  people  to 
recall,  and  they  were  all  so  easy  and  cheerful  together  (Daniel 
Doyce  either  sitting  out  like  an  amused  spectator  at  cards,  or 
coming  in  with  some  shrewd  little  experiences  of  his  own, 
when  it  happened  to  be  to  the  purpose),  that  they  might  have 
been  together  twenty  times,  and  not  have  known  so  much  of 
one  another. 

"And  Miss  Wade,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  after  they  had 
recalled  a  number  of  fellow-travelers.  "Has  any  body  seen 
Miss  Wade  ?" 

"  I  have,"  said  Tattycoram. 

She  had  brought  a  little  mantle  which  her  young  mistress 


202  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

had  sent  for,  and  was  bending  over  her,  putting  it  on,  when 
she  lifted  up  her  dark  eyes,  and  made  this  unexpected  answer  : 

"Tatty!"  her  young  mistress  exclaimed.  "You  seen  Miss 
Wade  ? — where  ? " 

"  Here,  miss,"  said  Tattycoram. 

"  How  ? " 

An  impatient  glance  from  Tattycoram  seemed  as  Clennam 
saw  it,  to  answer  "  With  my  eyes  !  "  But  her  only  answer  in 
words  was:  "I  met  her  near  the  church." 

"  What  was  she  doing  there,  I  wonder  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles. 
"Not  going  to  it,  I  should  think." 

"See  had  written  to  me  first,"  said  Tattycoram. 

"  Oh,  Tatty!  "  murmured  her  mistress,  "take  your  hands 
away.     I  feel  as  if  some  one  else  was  touching  me  !  " 

She  said  it  in  a  quick,  involuntary  way,  but  half  playfully, 
and  not  more  petulantly  and  disagreeably  than  a  favorite  child 
might  have  done,  who  laughed  next  moment.  Tattycoram 
set  her  full  red  lips  together,  and  crossed  her  arms  upon  her 
bosom. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  know,  sir,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mr. 
Meagles,  "  what  Miss  Wade  wrote  to  me  about  ?  " 

"  Well,  Tattycoram,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles,  "  since  you 
ask  the  question,  and  we  are  all  friends  here,  perhaps  you 
may  as  well  mention  it,  if  you  are  so  inclined." 

"  She  knew,  when  we  were  traveling,  where  you  lived," 
said  Tattycoram,  "and  she  had  seen  me  not  quite — not 
quite " 

"  Not  quite  in  good  temper,  Tattycoram  ?"  suggested  Mr. 
Meagles,  shaking  his  head  at  the  dark  eyes  with  a  quiet  cau- 
tion. "  Take  a  little  time — count  five-and-twenty,  Tatty- 
coram." 

She  pressed  her  lips  together  again  and  took  a  long,  deep 
breath. 

"  So  she  wrote  to  me  to  say  that  if  I  ever  felt  myself  hurt," 
she  looked  down  at  her  young  mistress,  "  or  found  myself 
worried,"  she  looked  down  at  her  again,  "  I  might  go  to  her, 
and  be  considerately  treated.  I  was  to  think  of  it,  and  could 
speak  to  her  by  the  church.  So  I  went  there  to  thank 
her." 

"  Tatty,"  said  her  young  mistress,  putting  her  hand  up  over 
her  shoulder  that  the  other  might  take  it,  "Miss  Wade  almost 
frightened  me  when  we  parted,  and  I  scarcely  liked  to  think 
of  her  just  now  as  having  been  so  near  me  without  my 
knowing  it.     Tatty,  dear  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  203 

Tatty  stood  for  a  moment,  immovable. 

"Hey?"  cried  Mr.  Meagles.  "Count  another  five-and- 
twenty,  Tattycoram." 

She  might  have  counted  a  dozen,  when  she  bent  and  put 
her  lips  to  the  caressing  hand.  It  patted  her  cheek,  as  it 
touched  the  owner's  beautiful  curls,  and  Tattycoram  went 
away. 

"Now,  there,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  softly,  as  he  gave  a  turn 
at  the  dumb-waiter  on  his  right  hand,  to  twirl  the  sugar  to- 
ward himself.  "There's  a  girl  who  might  be  lost  and  ruined, 
if  she  wasn't  among  practical  people.  Mother  and  I  know, 
solely  from  being  practical,  that  there  are  times  when  that 
girl's  whole  nature  seems  to  roughen  itself  against  seeing  us 
so  bound  up  in  Pet.  No  father  and  mother  were  bound  up 
in  her,  poor  soul.  I  don't  like  to  think  of  the  way  in  which 
that  unfortunate  child,  with  all  that  passion  and  protest  in 
her,  feels  when  she  hears  the  Fifth  Commandment  on  a  Sun- 
•  day.  I  am  always  inclined  to  call  out,  Church,  count  five- 
and-twenty,  Tattycoram." 

Besides  his  dumb-waiter,  Mr.  Meagles  had  two  other  not 
dumb  waiters  in  the  persons  of  two  parlor-maids,  with  rosy 
faces  and  bright  eyes,  who  were  a  highly  ornamental  part  of 
the  table  decoration.  "  And  why  not,  you  see  ?"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  on  this  head.  "As  I  always  say  to  mother,  why 
not  have  something  pretty  to  look  at,  if  you  have  any  thing 
at  all  ?" 

A  certain  Mrs.  Tickit,  who  was  cook  and  housekeeper 
when  the  family  were  at  home,  and  housekeeper  only  when 
the  family  were  away,  completed  the  establishment.  Mr. 
Meagles  regretted  that  the  nature  of  the  duties  in  which  she 
was  engaged,  rendered  Mrs.  Tickit  unpresentable  at  pres- 
ent, but  hoped  to  introduce  her  to  the  new  visitor  to-morrow. 
She  was  an  important  part  of  the  cottage,  he  said,  and  all  his 
friends  knew  her.  That  was  her  picture  up  in  the  corner. 
When  the)j  went  away,  she  always  put  on  the  silk  gown  and 
the  jet-black  row  of  curls  represented  in  that  portrait  (her 
hair  was  reddish-gray  in  the  kitchen),  established  herself  in 
the  breakfast-room,  put  her  spectacles  between  two  particu- 
lar leaves  of  Doctor  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine,  and  sat 
looking  over  the  blind  all  day  until  they  came  back  again. 
It  was  supposed  that  no  persuasion  could  be  invented  which 
would  induce  Mrs.  Tickit  to  abandon  her  post  at  the  blind, 
however  long  their  absence,  or  to  dispense  with  the  attend- 
ance of  Dr.  Buchan  ;  the  lucubrations  of  which  learned  prac- 


204  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

titioner,  Dr.  Meagles  implicitly  believed  she  had  never  yet 
consulted  to  the  extent  of  one  word  in  her  life. 

In  the  evening,  they  played  an  old-fashioned  rubber  ;  and 
Pet  sat  looking  over  her  father's  hand,  or  singing  to  herself 
by  fits  and  starts  at  the  piano.  She  was  a  spoiled  child  ;  but 
how  could  she  be  otherwise  ?  Who  could  be  much  with  so 
pliable  and  beautiful  a  creature,  and  not  yield  to  her  endear- 
ing influence  ?  Who  could  pass  an  evening  in  the  house,  and 
not  love  her  for  the  grace  and  charm  of  her  very  presence  in 
the  room  ?  This  was  Clennam's  reflection,  notwithstanding 
the  final  conclusion  at  which  he  had  arrived  up  stairs. 

In  making  it,  he  revoked.  "  Why,  what  are  you  thinking 
of,  my  good  sir  ?"  asked  the  astonished  Mr.  Meagles,  who 
was  his  partner.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  Nothing,"  returned 
Clennam.  "  Think  of  something,  next  time  ;  that's  a  dear 
fellow,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  Pet  laughingly  believed  he  had 
been  thinking  of  Miss  Wade.  "  Why  of  Miss  Wade,  Pet  ?" 
asked  her  father.  "  Why,  indeed  !"  said  Arthur  Clennam. 
Pet  colored  a  little,  and  went  to  the  piano  again. 

As  they  broke  up  for  the  night,  Arthur  overheard  Doyce 
ask  his  host  if  he  could  give  him  half  an  hour's  conversation 
before  breakfast  in  the  morning  ?  The  host  replying  will- 
ingly, Arthur  lingered  behind  a  moment,  having  his  own 
word  to  add  on  that  topic. 

"  Mr.  Meagles,"  he  said,  on  their  being  left  alone,  "  do 
you  remember  when  you  advised  me  to  go  straight  to  Lon- 
don ?" 

"  Perfectly  well." 

^^  And  when  you  gave  me  some  other  good  advice,  which 
I  needed  at  that  time  ?" 

"  I  won't  say  what  it  was  worth,"  answered  Mr.  Meagles  ; 
"  but  of  course  I  remember  our  being  very  pleasant  and  con- 
fidential together. 

"  I  have  acted  on  your  advice  ;  and  having  disembarrassed 
myself  of  an  occupation  that  was  painful  to  me  for  many 
reasons,  wish  to  devote  myself  and  what  means  I  have,  to 
another  pursuit." 

"  Right  !     You  can't  do  it  too  soon,"  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

"  Now,  as  I  came  down  to-day,  I  found  that  your  friend, 
Mr.  Doyce,  is  looking  for  a  partner  in  his  business — not  a 
partner  in  his  mechanical  knowledge,  but  in  the  ways  and 
means  of  turning  the  business  arising  from  it  to  the  best  ac- 
count." 

"  Just  so,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  his  hands  in  his  pock- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  205 

ets,  and  with  the  old  business  expression  of  face  that  had 
belonged  to  the  scales  and  scoop. 

"  Mr.  Doyce  mentioned  incidentally  in  the  course  of  our 
conversation,  that  he  was  going  to  take  your  valuable  advice 
on  the  subject  of  finding  such  a  partner.  If  you  should  think 
our  views  and  opportunities  at  all  likely  to  coincide,  perhaps 
you  will  let  him  know  my  available  position.  I  speak,  of 
course,  in  ignorance  of  the  details,  and  they  may  be  unsuit- 
able on  both  sides." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  a  cau- 
tion belonging  to  the  scales  and  scoop. 

"  But  they  will  be  a  question  of  figures  and  accounts " 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  the  arithmeti- 
cal solidity  belonging  to  the  scales  and  scoop. 

" — And  I  shall  be  glad  to  enter  into  the  subject,  pro- 
vided Mr.  Doyce  responds  and  you  think  well  of  it.  If  you 
will  at  present,  therefore,  allow  me  to  place  it  in  your  hands, 
you  will  much  oblige  me." 

"  Clennam,  I  accept  the  trust  with  readiness,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles.  "  And  without  anticipating  any  of  the  points 
which  you,  as  a  man  of  business,  have  of  course  reserved,  I 
am  free  to  say  to  you  that  I  think  something  may  come  of 
this.  Of  one  thing  you  may  be  perfectly  certain.  Daniel  is 
an  honest  man." 

"  I  am  so  sure  of  it,  that  I  have  promptly  made  up  my 
mind  to  speak  to  you." 

'^  You  must  guide  him,  you  know;  you  must  steer  him;  you 
must  direct  him;  he  is  one  of  a  crotchety  sort,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  evidently  meaning  nothing  more  than  that  he  did 
new  things  and  went  new  ways;  "  but  he  is  as  honest  as  the 
sun,  and  so  good-night  !  " 

Clennam  went  back  to  his  room,  sat  down  again  before  his 
fire,  and  made  up  his  mind  that  he  was  glad  he  had  resolved 
not  to  fall  in  love  with  Pet.  She  was  so  beautiful,  so  ami- 
able, so  apt  to  receive  any  true  impression  given  to  her  gentle 
nature  and  her  innocent  heart,  and  make  the  man  who  should 
be  so  happy  as  to  communicate  it,  the  most  fortunate  and 
enviable  of  all  men,  that  he  was  very  glad  indeed  he  had 
come  to  that  conclusion. 

But,  as  this  might  have  been  a  reason  for  coming  to  the 
opposite  conclusion,  he  followed  out  the  theme  again  a  little 
way  in  his  mind.     To  justify  himself,  perhaps. 

'*  Suppose  that  a  man,"  so  his  thoughts  ran,  "  who  had 
been  of  age  some  twenty  years  or  so  ;  who  was  a  diffident 


2o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

man,  from  the  circumstances  of  his  youth;  who  was  rather  a 
grave  man,  from  the  tenor  of  his  life;  who  knew  himself  to 
be  deficient  in  many  little  engaging  qualities  which  he 
admired  in  others,  from  having  been  long  in  a  distant  region, 
with  nothing  softening  nearer  him;  who  had  no  kind  sisters 
to  present  to  her;  who  had  no  congenial  home  to  make  her 
known  in;  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  land;  who  had  not  a 
fortune  to  compensate,  in  any  measure,  for  these  defects; 
who  had  nothing  in  his  favor  but  his  honest  love  and  his 
general  wish  to  do  right — suppose  such  a  man  were  to  come 
to  this  house  and  were  to  yield  to  the  captivation  of  this 
charming  girl,  and  were  to  persuade  himself  that  he  could 
hope  to  win  her;  what  a  weakness  it  w^ould  be  ! '' 

He  softly  opened  his  window,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
serene  river.  Year  after  year  so  much  allowance  for  the 
drifting  of  the  ferry-boat,  so  many  miles  an  hour  the  flowing 
of  the  stream,  here  the  rushes,  there  the  lilies,  nothing  uncer- 
tain or  unquiet. 

Why  should  he  be  vexed  or  sore  at  heart  ?  It  was  not 
his  weakness  that  he  had  imagined.  It  was  nobody's, 
nobody's  within  his  knowledge,  why  should  it  trouble  him  ? 
And  yet  it  did  trouble  him.  And  he  thought — who  has  not 
thought  for  a  moment,  sometimes — that  it  might  be  better  to 
flow  away  monotonously,  like  the  river,  and  to  compound  for 
its  insensibility  to  happiness  with  its  insensibility  to  pain. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 
nobody's   rival. 

Before  breakfast  in  the  morning,  Arthur  walked  out  to 
look  about  him.  As  the  morning  was  fine,  and  he  had  an 
hour  on  his  hands,  he  crossed  the  river  by  the  ferry,  and 
strolled  along  a  footpath  through  some  meadows.  When  he 
came  back  to  the  towing-path,  he  found  the  ferry-boat  on 
the  opposite  side,  and  a  gentleman  hailing  it  and  waiting  to 
be  taken  over. 

This  gentleman  looked  barely  thirty.  He  was  well  dressed, 
of  a  sprightly  and  gay  appearance,  a  well-knit  figure,  and  a 
rich  dark  complexion.  As  Arthur  came  over  the  stile  and 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  the  lounger  glanced  at  him  for  a 
moment,  and  then  resumed  his  occupation  of  idly  tossing 
stones  into  the  water  with  his  foot.     There  was  something  in 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  207 

his  way  of  spurning  them  out  of  their  places  with  his  hed, 
and  getting  them  into  the  required  position,  that  Clennam 
thought  had  an  air  of  cruelty  in  it.  Most  of  us  have  more 
or  less  frequently  derived  a  similar  impression,  from  a  man's 
manner  of  doing  some  very  little  thing:  plucking  a  flower, 
clearing  away  an  obstacle,  or  even  destroying  an  insentient 
object. 

The  gentleman's  thoughts  were  preoccupied,  as  his  face 
showed,  and  he  took  no  notice  of  a  fine  Newfoundland  dog, 
who  watched  him  attentively,  and  watched  every  stone  too, 
in  its  turn,  eager  to  spring  into  the  river  on  receiving  his 
master's  sign.  The  ferry-boat  came  over,  however,  without  his 
receiving  any  sign,  and  when  it  grounded  his  master  took 
him  by  the  collar  and  walked  him  into  it. 

"  Not  this  morning,"  he  said  to  the  dog.  "  You  won't  do 
for  ladies'  company,  dripping  wet.     Lie  down." 

Clennam  followed  the  man  and  the  dog  into  the  boat,  and 
took  his  seat.  The  dog  did  as  he  was  ordered.  The  man 
remained  standing,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  tow- 
ered between  Clennam  and  the  prospect.  Man  and  dog 
both  jumped  lightly  out  as  soon  as  they  touched  the  other 
side,  and  went  away.  Clennam  was  glad  to  be  rid  of 
them. 

The  church  clock  struck  the  breakfast  hour,  as  he  walked 
up  the  little  lane  by  which  the  garden-gate  was  approached. 
The  moment  he  pulled  the  bell,  a  deep  loud  barking  assailed 
him  from  within  the  wall. 

*^  I  heard  no  dog  last  night,"  thought  Clennam.  The  gate 
was  opened  by  one  of  the  rosy  maids,  and  on  the  lawn  were 
the  Newfoundland  dog  and  the  man. 

"  Miss  Minnie  is  not  down  yet,  gentlemen,"  said  the  blush- 
ing portress,  as  they  all  came  together  in  the  ga-xden.  Then 
she  said  to  the  master  of  the  dog,  **  Mr.  Clennam,  sir,"  and 
tripped  away. 

"  Odd  enough,  Mr.  Clennam,  that  we  should  have  met 
just  now,"  said  the  man.  Upon  which  the  dog  became  mute. 
"  Allow  me  to  introduce  myself — Henry  Gowan.  A  pretty 
place  this,  and  looks  wonderfully  well  his  morning  !  " 

The  manner  was  easy,  and  the  voice  agreeable  ;  but  still 
Clennam  thought,  that  if  he  had  not  made  that  decided  res- 
olution to  avoid  jfalling  in  love  with  Pet,  he  would  have 
taken  a  dislike  to  this  Henry  Gowan. 

^*  It's  new  to  you,  I  believe  ?  "  said  this  Gowan,  when 
Arthur  had  extolled  the  place. 


2o8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Quite  new.  I  made  acquaintance  with  it  only  yesterday 
afternoon." 

^'  Ah  I  Of  course  this  is  not  its  best  aspect.  It  used  to 
look  charming  in  the  spring,  before  they  went  away  last 
time.     I  should  like  you  to  have  seen  it  then." 

But  for  that  resolution  so  often  recalled,  Clennam  might 
have  wished  him  in  the  crater  of  Mount  Etna,  in  return  for 
this  civility. 

*^  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it  under  many  circum- 
stances during  the  last  three  years,  and  it's — a  paradise." 

It  was  (at  least  it  might  have  been,  always  excepting  for 
that  wise  resolution)  like  his  dexterous  impudence  to  call  it 
a  paradise.  He  only  called  it  a  paradise  because  he  first 
saw  her  coming,  and  so  made  her  out  within  her  hearing  to 
be  an  angel.  Confusion  to  him  ! 

And  ah,  how  beaming  she  looked,  and  how  glad  !  How 
she  caressed  the  dog,  and  how  the  dog  knew  her  !  How  ex- 
pressive that  heightened  color  in  her  face,  that  fluttered 
manner,  her  downcast  eyes,  her  irresolute  happiness  !  When 
had  Clennam  seen  her  look  like  this  ?  Not  that  there  was 
any  reason  why  he  might,  could,  would  or  should  have  ever 
seen  her  look  like  this,  or  that  he  had  ever  hoped  for  him- 
self to  see  her  look  like  this  ;  but  still — when  had  he  ever 
known  her  do  it  ! 

He  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  them.  This  Gowan, 
when  he  had  talked  about  a  paradise,  had  gone  up  to  her 
and  taken  her  hand.  The  dog  had  put  his  great  paws  on 
her  arm  and  laid  his  head  against  her  dear  bosom.  She  had 
laughed  and  welcomed  them,  and  made  far  too  much  of  the 
dog,  far,  far,  too  much — that  is  to  say,  supposing  there  had 
been  any  third  person  looking  on  who  loved  her. 

She  disengaged  herself  now,  and  came  to  Clennam,  and 
put  her  hand  in  his  and  wished  him  good-morning,  and 
gracefully  made  as  if  she  would  take  his  arm  and  be  escorted 
into  the  house.  This  Gowan  had  no  objection.  No,  he 
knew  he  was  too  safe. 

There  was  a  passing  cloud  on  Mr.  Meagles's  good-humored 
face,  when  they  all  three  (four,  counting  the  dog,  and  he 
was  the  most  objectionable  but  one  of  the  party)  came  in  to 
breakfast.  Neither  it,  nor  the  touch  of  uneasiness  on  Mrs. 
Meagles  as  she  directed  her  eyes  toward  it  was  unobserved 
by  Clennam. 

*'  Well,  Gowan,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  even  suppressing  a 
sigh  ;  **  how  goes  the  world  with  you  this  morning  ?  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  209 

"  Much  as  usual,  sir.  Lion  and  I  being  determined  not 
to  waste  any  thing  of  our  weekly  visit,  turned  out  early,  and 
came  over  from  Kingston,  my  present  headquarters,  where 
I  am  making  a  sketch  or  two."  Then  he  told  how  he  had 
met  Mr.  Clennam  at  the  ferry,  and  they  had  come  over 
together. 

*'  Mrs.  Gowan  is  well,  Henry  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Meagles.  (Clen- 
nam became  attentive.) 

"  My  mother  is  quite  well,  thank  you."  (Clennam  became 
inattentive.)  '*  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  making  an  addi- 
tion to  your  family  dinner-party  to-day,  which  I  hope  will 
not  be  inconvenient  to  you  or  to  Mr.  Meagles.  I  couldn't 
very  well  get  out  of  it,"  he  explained,  turning  to  the  latter. 
"  The  young  fellow  wrote  to  propose  himself  to  me  ;  and  as 
he  is  well  connected,  I  thought  you  would  not  object  to  my 
transferring  him  here." 

"  Who  is  the  young  fellow  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Meagles  with 
peculiar  complacency. 

'^  He  is  one  of  the  Barnacles.  Tite  Barnacle's  son,  Clar- 
ence Barnacle,  who  is  in  his  father's  department.  I  can  at 
least  guarantee  that  the  river  shall  not  suffer  from  his  visit. 
He  won't  set  it  on  fire." 

**  Ay,  ay  !  "  said  Meagles.  "  A  Barnacle  is  he  ?  We 
know  something  of  that  family,  eh,  Dan  !  By  George,  they 
are  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  though  !  Let  me  see.  What  rela- 
tion will  this  young  fellow  be  to  Lord  Decimus  now  ?  His 
lordship  married,  in  seventeen  ninety-seven,  Lady  Jemima 
Bilberry,  who  was  the  second  daughter  by  the  third  marriage 
— no!  There  I  am  wrong!  That  was  Lady  Seraphina— - 
Lady  Jemima  was  the  first  daughter  by  the  second  marriage 
of  the  fifteenth  Earl  of  Stiltstalking  with  the  Honorable 
Clementina  Toozellem.  Very  well.  Now  this  young  fellow's 
father  married  a  Stiltstalking  and  his  father  married  his 
cousin  who  was  a  Barnacle.  The  father  of  that  father  who 
married  a  Barnacle,  married  a  Joddleby. — I  am  getting  a 
little  too  far  back,  Gowan  ;  I  want  to  make  out  what  rela- 
tion this  young  fellow  is  to  Lord  Decimus." 

"  That's  easily  stated.  His  father  is  nephew  to  Lord 
Decimus." 

"  Nephew — to — Lord — Decimus,"  Mr.  Meagles  luxuriously 
repeated  with  his  eyes  shut,  that  he  might  have  nothing  to 
distract  him  from  the  full  flavor  of  the  genealogical  tree. 
"  By  George,  you  are  right,  Gowan.     So  he  is." 

"Consequently,  Lord  Decimus  is  his  great  uncle," 


2IO  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  But  stop  a  bit  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  opening  his  eyes 
with  a  fresh  discovery.  "  Then,  on  the  mother's  side,  Lady 
Stiltstalking  is  his  great  aunt." 

"  Of  course  she  is." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay  ? "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  much  interest. 
**  Indeed,  indeed  ?  We  shall  be  glad  to  see  him.  We'll 
entertain  him  as  well  as  we  can,  in  our  humble  way  ;  and  we 
shall  not  starve  him,  I  hope,  at  all  events." 

In  the  beginning  of  this  dialogue,  Clennam  had  expected 
some  great  harmless  outburst  from  Mr.  Meagles,  like  that 
which  had  made  him  burst  out  of  the  circumlocution  office, 
holding  Doyce  by  the  collar.  But  his  good  friend  had  a 
weakness  which  none  of  us  need  go  into  the  next  street  to 
find,  and  which  no  amount  of  circumlocution  experience 
could  long  subdue  in  him.  Clennam  looked  at  Doyce  ;  but 
Doyce  knew  all  about  it  beforehand,  and  looked  at  his  plate, 
and  made  no  sign,  and  said  no  word. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Gowan,  to  conclude  the 
subject.  "  Clarence  is  a  great  ass,  but  he  is  one  of  the  dear- 
est and  best  fellows  that  ever  lived  !  " 

It  appeared,  before  the  breakfast  was  over,  that  every 
body  whom  this  Gowan  knew  was  either  more  or  less  of  an 
ass,  or  more  or  less  of  a  knave  ;  but  was,  notwithstanding, 
the  most  lovable,  the  most  engaging,  the  simplest,  truest, 
kindest,  dearest,  best  fellow  that  ever  lived.  The  process  by 
which  this  unvarying  result  was  attained,  whatever  the 
premises,  might  have  been  stated  by  Mr.  Henry  Gowan 
thus  :  *'  I  claim  to  be  always  book-keeping,  with  a  peculiar 
nicety,  in  every  man's  case,  and  posting  up  a  careful  little 
account  of  good  and  evil  with  him.  I  do  this  so  conscien- 
tiously, that  I  am  happy  to  tell  you  I  find  the  most  worthless 
of  men  to  be  the  dearest  old  fellow  too  ;  and  am  in  a  condi- 
tion to  make  the  gratifying  report,  that  there  is  much  less 
difference  than  you  are  inclined  to  suppose  between  an  hon- 
est man  and  a  scoundrel."  The  effect  of  this  cheering  dis- 
covery happened  to  be,  that  while  he  seemed  to  be  scrupu- 
lously finding  good  in  most  men,  he  did  in  reality  lower  it 
where  it  was,  and  set  it  up  where  it  was  not ;  but  that  was 
its  only  disagreeable  or  dangerous  feature. 

It  scarcely  seemed,  however,  to  afford  Mr.  Meagles  as 
much  satisfaction  as  the  Barnacle  genealogy  had  done.  The 
cloud  that  Clennam  had  never  seen  upon  his  face  before  that 
morning,  frequently  overcast  it  again  ;  and  there  was  the 
same  shadow  of  uneasy  observation  of  him  on  the  comely  face 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  211 

of  his  wife.  More  than  once  or  twice  when  Pet  caressed  the 
dog,  it  appeared  to  Clennam  that  her  father  was  unhappy  in 
seeing  her  do  it  ;  and,  in  one  particular  instance  when  Govvan 
stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  dog,  and  bent  his  head  at  the 
same  time,  Arthur  fancied  that  he  saw  tears  rise  to  Mr.  Mea- 
gles's  eyes  as  he  hurried  out  of  the  room.  It  was  either  the 
fact  too,  or  he  fancied  further,  that  Pet  herself  was  not  insen- 
sible to  these  little  incidents  ;  that  she  tried,  with  a  more 
delicate  affection  than  usual,  to  express  to  her  good  father 
how  much  she  loved  him  ;  that  it  was  on  this  account  that 
she  fell  behind  the  rest,  both  as  they  went  to  church  and  as 
they  returned  from  it,  and  took  his  arm.  He  could  not  have 
sworn  but  that  as  he  walked  alone  in  the  garden  afterward, 
he  had  an  instantaneous  glimpse  of  her  in  her  father's  room, 
clinging  to  both  her  parents  with  the  greatest  tenderness, 
and  weeping  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

The  latter  part  of  the  day  turning  out  wet,  they  were  fain 
to  keep  the  house,  look  over  Mr.  Meagles's  collection,  and 
beguile  the  time  with  conversation.  This  Gowan  had  plenty 
to  say  for  himself,  and  said  it  in  an  off-hand  and  amusing 
manner.  He  appeared  to  be  an  artist  by  profession,  and  to 
have  been  at  Rome  some  time  ;  yet  he  had  a  slight,  careless, 
amateur  way  with  him — a  perceptible  limp,  both  in  his  de- 
votion to  art  and  his  attainments — which  Clennam  could 
scarcely  understand. 

He  applied  to  Daniel  Doyce  for  help,  as  they  stood 
together,  looking  out  of  window. 

*'  You  know  Mr.  Gowan  ?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

**  I  have  seen  him  here.  Comes  here  every  Sunday,  when 
they  are  at  home." 

**  An  artist,  I  infer  from  what  he  says  ?" 

"  A  sort  of  one,"  said  Daniel  Doyce,  in  a  surly  tone. 

**  What  sort  of  a  one  ?"  asked  Clennam  with  a  smile. 

'*  Why,  he  has  sauntered  into  the  arts  at  a  leisurely  Pall- 
Mail  pace,"  said  Doyce,  "  and  I  doubt  if  they  care  to  be 
taken  quite  so  coolly." 

Pursuing  his  inquiries,  Clennam  found  that  the  Gowan 
family  were  a  very  distant  ramification  of  the  Barnacles;  and 
that  the  paternal  Gowan,  originally  attached  to  a  legation 
abroad,  had  been  pensioned  off  as  a  commissioner  of  nothing 
particular  somewhere  or  other,  and  had  died  at  his  post  with 
his  drawn  salary  in  his  hand,  nobly  defending  it  to  the  last 
extremity.  In  consideration  of  this  eminent  public  service, 
the  Barnacle  then  in  power  had  recommended  the  Crown  to 


212  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

bestow  a  pension  of  two  or  three  hundred  a  year  on  his 
widow;  to  which  the  next  Barnacle  in  power  had  added 
certain  shady  and  sedate  apartments  in  the  palace  at  Hamp- 
ton Court,  where  the  old  lady  still  lived,  deploring  the  de- 
generacy of  the  times,  in  company  with  several  other  old 
ladies  of  both  sexes.  Her  son,  Mr.  Henry  Gowan,  inherit- 
ing from  his  father,  the  commissioner,  that  very  questionable 
help  in  life,  a  very  small  independence,  had  been  difficult  to 
settle  ;  the  rather,  as  public  appointments  chanced  to  be 
scarce,  and  his  genius,  during  his  earlier  manhood,  was  of 
that  exclusively  agricultural  character  which  applies  itself  to 
the  cultivation  of  wild  oats.  At  last  he  had  declared  that 
he  would  become  a  painter  :  partly  because  he  had  always 
had  an  idle  knack  that  way,  and  partly  to  grieve  the  souls  of 
the  Barnacles-in-chief  who  had  not  provided  for  him.  So  it 
had  come  to  pass  successively,  first,  that  several  distinguished 
ladies  had  been  frightfully  shocked  ;  then,  that  portfolios  of 
his  performances  had  been  handed  about  o'  nights,  and  de- 
clared with  ecstasy  to  be  perfect  Claudes,  perfect  Cuyps, 
perfect  phenomena  ;  then,  that  Lord  Decimus  had  bought 
his  picture,  and  had  asked  the  president  and  council  to 
dinner  at  a  blow,  and  had  said,  with  his  own  magnificent 
gravity,  *'  Do  you  know,  there  appears  to  me  to  be  really 
immense  merit  in  that  work  ?"  and,  in  short,  that  people 
of  condition  had  absolutely  taken  pains  to  bring  him  into 
fashion.  But,  somehow  it  had  all  failed.  The  prejudice/! 
public  had  stood  out  against  it  obstinately.  They  had  deter- 
mined not  to  admire  Lord  Decimus's  picture.  They  had 
determined  to  believe  that  in  every  service,  except  their  own, 
a  man  must  qualify  himself,  by  striving,  early  and  late,  and  by 
working  heart  and  soul,  might  and  main.  So  now  Mr.  Gowan, 
like  that  worn-out  old  coffin  which  never  was  Mohammed's 
nor  any  body  else's,  hung  midway  between  two  points:  jaun- 
diced and  jealous  as  to  the  one  he  had  left  :  jaundiced  and 
jealous  as  to  the  other  that  he  couldn't  reach. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  Clennam's  discoveries  con- 
cerning him,  made  that  rainy  Sunday  afternoon  and  after- 
ward. 

About  an  hour  or  so  after  dinner-time,  young  Barnacle 
appeared,  attended  by  his  eye-glass;  in  honor  of  whose  family 
connections,  Mr.  Meagles  had  cashiered  the  pretty  parlor- 
maids for  the  day,  and  had  placed  on  duty  in  their  stead  two 
dingy  men.  Young  Barnacle  was  in  the  last  degree  amazed 
and  disconcerted  at  sight  of  Arthur,  and  had  murmured  in- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  213 

voluntarily,  "  Look  here  ! — upon  my  soul,  you  know!'*  before 
his  presence  of  mind  returned. 

Even  then,  he  was  obliged  to  embrace  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity of  taking  his  friend  into  a  window,  and  saying,  in  a 
nasal  way  that  was  a  part  of  his  general  debility  : 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Gowan.  I  say.  Look  here. 
Who  is  that  fellow  ?" 

"  A  friend  of  our  host's.     None  of  mine.*' 

"  He's  a  most  ferocious  radical,  you  know,"  said  young 
Barnacle. 

^'  Is  he  ?     How  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Egad,  sir,  he  was  pitching  into  our  people  the  other 
day,  in  the  most  tremendous  manner.  Went  up  to  our  place 
and  pitched  into  my  father  to  that  extent  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  order  him  out.  Came  back  to  our  department,  and 
pitched  into  me.  Look  here.  You  never  saw  such  a 
fellow." 

''  What  did  he  want  ?  " 

"  Egad,  sir,"  returned  young  Barnacle,  "  he  said  he 
wanted  to  know,  you  know  !  Pervaded  our  department — 
without  an  appointment — and  he  said  he  wanted  to  know  !  " 

The  stare  of  indignant  wonder  with  which  young  Bar- 
nacle accompanied  this  disclosure,  would  have  strained  his 
eyes  injuriously  but  for  the  opportune  relief  of  dinner.  Mr. 
Meagles  (who  has  been  extremely  solicitous  to  know  how  his 
uncle  and  aunt  were)  begged  him  to  conduct  Mrs.  Meagles 
to  the  dining-room.  And  when  he  sat  on  Mrs.  Meagles's 
right  hand,  Mr.  Meagles  looked  as  gratified  as  if  his  whole 
family  were  there. 

All  the  natural  charm  of  the  previous  day  was  gone.  The 
eaters  of  the  dinner,  like  the  dinner  itself,  were  lukewarm, 
insipid,  over-done — and  all  owing  to  this  poor  little  dull 
young  Barnacle.  Conversationless  at  any  time,  he  was  now 
the  victim  of  a  weakness  special  to  the  occasion,  and  solely 
referable  to  Clennam.  He  was  under  a  pressing  and  contin- 
ual necessity  of  looking  at  that  gentleman,  which  occasioned 
his  eye-glass  to  get  into  his  soup,  into  his  wine  glass,  into 
Mrs.  Meagles's  plate,  to  hang  down  his  back  like  a  bell- 
rope,  and  be  several  times  disgracefully  restored  to  his 
bosom  by  one  of  the  dingy  men.  Weakened  in  mind  by  his 
frequent  losses  of  this  instrument,  and  its  determination  not 
to  stick  in  his  eye,  and  more  and  more  enfeebled  in  intellect 
every  time  he  looked  at  the  mysterious  Clennam,  he  applied 
spoons  to  his  eye,  forks,  and  other  foreign  matters  connected 


214  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with  the  furniture  of  the  dinner-table.  His  discovery  of 
these  mistakes  greatly  increased  his  difficulties,  but  never 
released  him  from  the  necessity  of  looking  at  Clennam. 
And  whenever  Clennam  spoke,  this  ill-starred  young  man 
was  clearly  seized  with  a  dread  that  he  was  coming,  by  some 
artful  device,  round  to  that  point  of  wanting  to  know,  you 
know. 

It  may  be  questioned,  therefore,  whether  any  one  but  Mr. 
Meagles  had  much  enjoyment  of  the  time.  Mr.  Meagles, 
however,  thoroughly  enjoyed  young  Barnacle.  As  a  mere 
flask  of  the  golden  water  in  the  tale  became  a  full  foun- 
tain when  it  was  poured  out,  so  Mr.  Meagles  seemed  to  feel 
that  this  small  spice  of  Barnacle  imparted  to  his  table  the 
flavor  of  the  whole  family  tree.  In  its  presence,  his  frank, 
fine,  genuine  qualities  paled  ;  he  was  not  so  easy,  he  was  not 
so  natural,  he  was  striving  after  something  that  did  not 
belong  to  him,  he  was  not  himself.  What  a  strange  peculi- 
arity on  the  part  of  Mr.  Meagles,  and  where  should  we  find 
such  another  case  ! 

At  last  the  wet  Sunday  wore  itself  out  in  a  wet  night :  and 
young  Barnacle  went  home  in  a  cab,  feebly  smoking  ;  and 
the  objectionable  Gowan  went  away  on  foot,  accompanied 
by  the  objectionable  dog.  Pet  had  taken  the  most  amiable 
pains  all  day  to  be  friendly  with  Clennam,  but  Clennam  had 
been  a  little  reserved  since  breakfast — that  is  to  say,  would 
have  been,  if  he  had  loved  her. 

When  he  had  gone  to  his  own  room,  and  had  again  thrown 
himself  into  the  chair  by  the  fire,  Mr.  Doyce  knocked  at  the 
door,  candle  in  hand,  to  ask  him  how  and  at  what  hour  he 
purposed  returning  on  the  morrow  ?  After  settling  this 
question,  he  said  a  word  to  Mr.  Doyce  about  this  Gowan — 
who  would  have  run  in  his  head  a  good  deal,  if  he  had  been 
his  rival. 

"  Those  are  not  good  prospects  for  a  painter/'  said 
Clennam. 

'*  No,"  returned  Doyce. 

Mr.  Doyce  stood,  chamber-candlestick  in  hand,  the  other 
hand  in  his  pocket,  looking  hard  at  the  flame  of  his  candle, 
with  a  certain  quiet  perception  in  his  face  that  they  were 
going  to  say  something  more. 

*^  I  thought  our  good  friend  a  little  changed,  and  out  of 
spirits,  after  he  came  this  morning  ?  "  said  Clennam. 

*^  Yes,"  returned  Doyce. 

"  But  not  his  daughter  ?"  said  Clennam. 

"  No,"  said  Doyce. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  2i«; 

There  was  a  pause  on  both  sides.  Mr.  Doyce,  still  look- 
ing at  the  flame  of  his  candle,  slowly  resumed  : 

"  The  truth  is,  he  has  twice  taken  his  daughter  abroad,  in 
the  hope  of  separating  her  from  Mr.  Gowan.  He  rather 
thinks  she  is  disposed  to  like  him,  and  he  has  painful  doubts 
(I  quite  agree  with  him,  as  I  dare  say  you  do),  of  the  hope- 
fulness of  such  a  marriage.'* 

"  There "     Clennam     choked,     and     coughed,    and 

stopped. 

"  Yes,  you  have  taken  cold,"  said  Daniel  Doyce.  But 
without  looking  at  him. 

" — There  is  an  engagement  between  them,  of  course  ?  " 
said  Clennam,  airily. 

"  No,  as  I  am  told,  certainly  not.  It  has  been  solicited 
on  the  gentleman's  part,  but  none  has  been  made.  Since 
their  recent  return,  our  friend  has  yielded  to  a  weekly  visit, 
but  that  is  the  utmost.  Minnie  would  not  deceive  her 
father  and  mother.  You  have  traveled  with  them,  and  I 
believe  you  know  what  a  bond  there  rs  among  them,  extend- 
ing even  beyond  this  present  life.  All  that  there  is  between 
Miss  Minnie  and  Mr.  Gowan,  I  have  no  doubt  we  see." 

*'  Ah  1     We  see  enough  !  "    cried  Arthur. 

Mr.  Doyce  wished  him  good-night,  in  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  had  heard  a  mournful,  not  to  say  despairing,  exclama- 
tion, and  who  sought  to  infuse  some  encouragement  and  hope 
into  the  mind  of  the  person  by  whom  it  had  been  uttered. 
Such  tone  was  probably  a  part  of  his  oddity,  as  one  of  a 
crotchety  band;  for  how  could  he  have  heard  any  thing  of 
that  kind,  without  Clennam's  hearing  it  too  ? 

The  rain  fell  heavily  on  the  roof,  and  pattered  on  the 
ground,  and  dripped  among  the  evergreens,  and  the  leafless 
branches  of  the  trees.  The  rain  fell  heavily,  drearily.  It 
was  a  night  of  tears. 

If  Clennam  had  not  decided  against  falling  in  love  with 
Pet;  if  he  had  had  the  weakness  to  do  it;  if  he  had,  little 
by  little,  persuaded  himself  to  set  all  the  earnestness  of  his 
nature,  all  the  might  of  his  hope,  and  all  the  wealth  of  his 
matured  character,  on  that  cast;  if  he  had  done  this  and 
found  that  all  was  lost;  he  would  have  been,  that  night, 
unutterably  miserable.     As  it  was 

As  it  was,  the  rain  fell  heavily,  drearily. 


2i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

CHAPTER  XVIIL 

LITTLE      DORRIT's      LOVER. 

Little  Dorrit  had  not  attained  her  twenty-second  birthday 
without  finding  a  lover.  Even  in  the  shallow  Marshalsea^ 
the  ever  young  archer  shot  off  a  few  featherless  arrows  now 
and  then  from  a  moldy  bow,  and  winged  a  collegian  or  two. 

Little  Dorrit's  lover,  however,  was  not  a  collegian.  He 
was  the  sentimental  son  of  a  turnkey.  His  father  hoped,  in 
the  fullness  of  time,  to  leave  him  the  inheritance  of  an 
unstained  key;  and  had  from  his  early  youth  familiarized 
him  with  the  duties  of  his  office,  and  with  an  ambition  to 
retain  the  prison-lock  in  the  family.  While  the  succession 
was  yet  in  abeyance,  he  assisted  his  mother  in  the  conduct 
of  a  snug  tobacco  business  round  the  corner  of  Horsemon- 
ger  Lane  (his  father  being  a  non-resident  turnkey),  which 
could  usually  command  a  neat  connection  within  the  college 
walls. 

Years  agone,  when  the  object  of  his  affections  was  wont 
to  sit  in  her  little  arm-chair,  by  the  high  lodge-fender, 
young  John  (family  name,  Chivery),  a  year  older  than  her-. 
self,  had  eyed  her  with  admiring  wonder.  When  he  had 
played  with  her  in  the  yard,  his  favorite  game  had  been  to 
counterfeit  locking  her  up  in  corners,  and  to  counterfeit 
letting  her  out  for  real  kisses.  When  he  grew  tall  enough 
to  peep  through  the  key-hole  of  the  great  lock  of  the  main 
door,  he  had  divers  times  set  down  his  father's  dinner,  or 
supper,  to  get  on  as  it  might  on  the  outer  side  thereof, 
while  he  stood  taking  cold  in  one  eye  by  dint  of  peeping  at 
her  through  that  airy  perspective. 

If  young  John  had  ever  slackened  in  his  truth  in  the  less 
penetrable  days  of  his  boyhood,  when  youth  is  prone  to 
wear  its  boots  unlaced  and  is  happily  unconcious  of  digestive 
organs,  he  had  soon  strung  it  up  again  and  screwed  it  tight. 
At  nineteen,  his  hand  had  inscribed  in  chalk  on  that  part  of 
the  wall  which  fronted  her  lodging,  on  the  occasion  of  her 
birthday,  *'  Welcome,  sweet  nursling  of  the  fairies  !  "  At 
twenty-three,  the  same  hand  falteringly  presented  cigars,  on 
Sundays,  to  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea.  and  father  of  the 
queen  of  his  souL 

Young  John  was  small  of  stature,  with  rather  weak  legs 
and  very  weak  light  hair.     One  of  his  eyes  (perhaps  the  eye 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  217 

that  used  to  peep  through  the  key-hole)  was  also  weak,  and 
looked  larger  than  the  other,  as  if  it  couldn't  collect  itself. 
Young  John  was  gentle  likewise.  But  he  was  great  of  soul. 
Poetical,  expansive,  faithful. 

Though  too  humble  before  the  ruler  of  his  heart  to  be 
sanguine,  young  John  had  considered  the  object  of  his 
attachment  in  all  its  lights  and  shades.  Following  it  out  to 
blissful  results,  he  had  descried,  without  self-commendation, 
a  fitness  in  it.  Say  things  prospered,  and  they  were  united. 
She,  the  child  of  the  Marshalsea;  he,  the  lock-keeper.  There 
was  a  fitness  in  that.  Say  he  became  a  resident  turnkey. 
She  would  officially  succeed  to  the  chamber  she  had  rented 
so  long.  There  was  a  beautiful  propriety  in  that.  It  looked 
over  the  wall,  if  you  stood  on  tip-toe;  and,  with  a  trellis-work 
of  scarlet  beans  and  a  canary  or  so,  would  become  a  very 
arbor.  There  was  a  charming  idea  in  that.  Then,  being 
all  in  all  to  one  another,  there  was  even  an  appropriate  grace 
in  the  lock.  With  the  world  shut  out  (except  that  part  of  it 
which  would  be  shut  in);  with  its  troubles  and  disturbances 
only  known  to  them  by  hearsay,  as  they  would  be  described 
by  the  pilgrims  tarrying  with  them  on  their  way  to  the  insol- 
vent shrine;  with  the  arbor  above,  and  the  lodge  below;  they 
would  glide  down  the  stream  of  time,  in  pastoral  domestic 
happiness.  Young  John  drew  tears  from  his  eyes  by  finish- 
ing the  picture  with  a  tombstone  in  the  adjoining  church- 
yard, close  against  the  prison  wall,  bearing  the  following 
touching  inscription:  ^'Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  John 
Chivery,  sixty  years  turnkey,  and  fifty  years  head  turnkey, 
of  the  neighboring  Marshalsea,  who  departed  this  life,  uni- 
versally respected,  on  the  thirty-first  of  December,  one  thou- 
sand eight  hundred  and  eighty-six,  aged  eighty-three  years. 
Also  of  his  truly  beloved  and  his  truly  loving  wife,  Amy, 
whose  maiden  name  was  Dorrit,  who  survived  his  loss  not 
quite  forty-eight  hours,  and  who  breathed  her  last  in  the 
Marshalsea  aforesaid.  There  she  was  born,  there  she  lived, 
there  she  died." 

The  Chivery  parents  were  not  ignorant  of  their  son's  at- 
tachment— indeed  it  had,  on  some  exceptional  occasions, 
thrown  him  in  a  state  of  mind  that  had  impelled  him  to  con- 
duct himself  with  irascibility  toward  the  customers  and  dam- 
age the  business — but  they,  in  their  turns,  had  worked  it  out 
to  desirable  conclusions.  Mrs.  Chivery,  a  prudent  woman, 
had  desired  her  husband  to  take  notice  that  their  John's 
prospects  of  the  lock  would  certainly  be  strengthened   by 


2i8  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

an  alliance  with  Miss  Dorrit,  who  had  herself  a  kind  of  claim 
upon  the  college,  and  was  much  respected  there.  Mrs. 
Chivery  had  desired  her  husband  to  take  notice  that  if,  on 
the  one  hand,  their  John  had  means  and  a  post  of  trust,  on 
the  other  hand.  Miss  Dorrit  had  family;  and  that  her  (Mrs. 
Chivery's)  sentiment  was,  that  two  halves  make  a  whole.  Mrs. 
Chivery,  speaking  as  a  mother  and  not  as  a  diplomatist,  had 
then,  from  a  different  point  of  view,  desired  her  husband  to 
recollect  that  their  John  had  never  been  strong,  and  that  his 
love  had  fretted  and  worrited  him  enough  as  it  was  without 
his  being  driven  to  do  himself  mischief,  as  nobody  couldn't 
say  he  wouldn't  be  if  he  was  crossed.  These  arguments  had 
so  powerfully  influenced  the  mind  of  Mr.  Chivery,  who  was 
a  man  of  few  words,  that  he  had  on  sundry  Sunday  mornings 
given  his  boy  what  he  termed  ''a  lucky  touch,"  signifying 
that  he  considered  such  commendation  of  him  to  good  for- 
tune, preparatory  to  his  that  day  declaring  his  passion  and  be- 
coming triumphant.  But  young  John  had  never  taken  cour- 
age to  make  the  declaration,  and  it  was  principally  on  these 
occasions  that  he  had  returned  excited  to  the  tobacco  shop, 
and  flown  at  the  customers. 

In  this  affair,  as  in  every  other.  Little  Dorrit  herself  was 
the  last  person  considered.  Her  brother  and  sister  were 
aware  of  it,  and  attained  a  sort  of  station  by  making  a  peg 
of  it  on  which  to  air  the  miserably  ragged  old  fiction  of  the 
family  gentility.  Her  sister  asserted  the  family  gentility,  by 
flouting  the  poor  swain  as  he  loitered  about  the  prison  for 
glimpses  of  his  dear.  Tip  asserted  the  family  gentility,  and 
his  own,  by  coming  out  in  the  character  of  the  aristocratic 
brother,  and  loftily  swaggering  in  the  little  skittle  ground  re- 
specting seizures  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  which  there  were 
looming  probabilities  of  some  gentleman  unknown  executing 
on  some  little  puppy  not  mentioned.  These  Avere  not  the  only 
members  of  the  Dorrit  family  who  turned  it  to  account.  No, 
no.  The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  was  supposed  to  know 
nothing  about  the  matter,  of  course:  his  poor  dignity  could 
not  see  so  low.  But  he  took  the  cigars,  on  Sundays,  and  was 
glad  to  get  them;  and  sometimes  even  condescended  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  yard  with  the  donor  (who  was  proud  and 
hopeful  then),  and  benignantly  to  smoke  one  in  his  society. 
With  no  less  readiness  and  condescension  did  he  receive  at- 
tentions from  Chivery  Senior,  who  always  relinquished  his 
arm-chair  and  newspaper  to  him,  when  he  came  into  the 
lodge  during  one  of  his  spells  of  duty,   and  who  had  even 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  219 

mentioned  to  him,  that  if  he  would  like  any  time  after  dusk, 
quietly  to  step  out  into  the  fore-court,  and  take  a  look  at  the 
street,  there  was  not  much  to  prevent  him.  If  he  did  not 
avail  himself  of  this  latter  civility,  it  was  only  because  he  had 
lost  the  relish  for  it;  inasmuch  as  he  took  every  thing  else  he 
could  get,  and  would  say  at  times,  *'  Extremely  civil  person, 
Chivery;  very  attentive  man  and  very  respectful.  Young 
Chivery,  too;  really  almost  with  a  delicate  perception  of  one's 
position  here.  A  very  well  conducted  family  indeed,  the 
Chiverys.     Their  behavior  gratifies  me." 

The  devoted  young  John  all  this  time  regarded  the  family 
with  reverence.  He  never  dreamed  of  disputing  their  pre- 
tensions, but  did  homage  to  the  miserable  Mumbo  Jumbo 
they  paraded.  As  to  resenting  any  affront  from  her  brother, 
he  would  have  felt,  even  if  he  had  not  naturally  been  of  a 
most  pacific  disposition,  that  to  wag  his  tongue  or  lift  his 
hand  against  that  sacred  gentleman  would  be  an  unhallowed 
act.  He  was  sorry  that  his  noble  mind  should  take  offense; 
still,  he  felt  the  fact  to  be  not  incompatible  with  its  nobility, 
and  sought  to  propitiate  and  conciliate  that  gallant  soul. 
Her  father,  a  gentleman  in  misfortune — a  gentleman  of  a 
fine  spirit  and  courtly  manners,  who  always  bore  with  him — 
he  deeply  honored.  Her  sister,  he  considered  somewhat 
vain  and  proud,  but  a  young  lady  of  infinite  accomplish- 
ments, who  could  not  forget  the  past.  It  was  an  instinctive 
testimony  to  Little  Dorrit's  worth,  and  difference  from  all  the 
rest,  that  the  poor  young  fellow  honored  and  loved  her  for 
being  simply  what  she  was. 

The  tobacco  business  round  the  corner  of  Horsemonger 
Lane  was  carried  on  in  a  rural  establishment  one  story  high, 
which  had  the  benefit  of  the  air  from  the  yards  of  Horse- 
monger  Lane  Jail,  and  the  advantage  of  a  retired  walk  under 
the  wall  of  that  pleasant  establishment.  The  business  was  of 
too  modest  a  character  to  support  a  life-size  Highlander,  but 
it  maintained  a  little  one  on  a  bracket  on  the  door-post,  who 
looked  like  a  fallen  cherub  that  had  found  it  necessary  to  take 
to  a  kilt. 

From  the  portal  thus  decorated,  one  Sunday,  after  an  early 
dinner  of  baked  viands,  young  John  issued  forth  on  his  usual 
Sunday  errand;  not  empty-handed,  but  with  his  offering  of 
cigars.  He  was  neatly  attired  in  a  plum-colored  coat,  with  as 
large  a  collar  of  black  velvet  as  his  figure  could  carry;  a 
silken  waistcoat,  bedecked  with  golden  sprigs  ;  a  chaste 
neckerchief  much  in  vogue  at  that  day,  representing  a  pre- 


220  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

serve  of  lilac  pheasants  on  a  buff  ground;  pantaloons  so 
highly  decorated  with  side  stripes,  that  each  leg  was  a  three- 
stringed  lute;  and  a  hat  of  state  very  high  and  hard.  When 
the  prudent  Mrs.  Chivery  perceived  that  in  addition  to  these 
adornments  her  John  carried  a  pair  of  white  kid  gloves,  and 
a  cane  like  a  little  finger-post,  surmounted  by  an  ivory  hand 
marshaling  him  the  way  that  he  should  go;  and  when  she 
saw  him,  in  this  heavy  marching  order,  turn  the  corner  to 
the  right;  she  remarked  to  Mr.  Chivery,  who  was  at  home 
at  the  time,  that  she  thought  she  knew  which  way  the  wind 
blew. 

The  collegians  were  entertaining  a  considerable  number 
of  visitors  that  Sunday  afternoon,  and  their  father  kept  his 
room  for  the  purpose  of  receiving  presentations.  After 
making  the  tour  of  the  yard.  Little  Dorrit's  lover  w^ith  a 
hurried  heart  went  up  stairs,  and  knocked  with  his  knuckles 
at  the  father's  door. 

"  Come  in,  come  in !  '*  said  a  gracious  voice.  The 
father's  voice,  her  father's,  the  Marshalsea's  father's.  He 
was  seated  in  his  black  velvet  cap,  with  his  nev/spaper,  three 
and  sixpence  accidentally  left  on  the  table,  and  two  chairs 
arranged.     Every  thing  prepared  for  holding  his  court. 

"  Ah,  young  John  !     How  do  you  do,  how  do  you  do  ? " 

"  Pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  sir.  I  hope  you  are  the 
same." 

^'  Yes,  John  Chivery;  yes.     Nothing  to  complain  of." 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  sir,  of " 

''  Eh  ?  "  The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  always  lifted  up 
his  eyebrows  at  this  point,  and  became  amiably  distraught 
and  smilingly  absent  in  mind. 

*^ — A  few  cigars,  sir." 

"  Oh  ! "  (For  the  moment,  excessively  surprised.) 
"  Thank  you,  young  John,  thank  you.  But  really  I  am  afraid 
I  am  too —  No  ?  Well  then,  I  shall  say  no  more  about  it. 
Put  them  on  the  mantel-shelf,  if  you  please,  young  John. 
And  sit  down,  sit  down.     You  are  not  a  stranger,  John." 

"Thank  you,  sir,  I  am  sure — Miss;"  here  young  John 
turned  the  great  hat  round  and  round  upon  his  left  hand,  like 
a  slowly  twirling  mouse-cage;  "  Miss  Amy  quite  well,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  John,  yes;  very  well.     She  is  out." 

"  Indeed,  sir  !  " 

"  Yes,  John.  Miss  Amy  is  gone  for  an  airing.  My  young 
people  all  go  out  a  good  deal.  But  at  their  time  of  life, 
it's  natural,  John." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  221 

**  Very  much  so,  I  am  sure,  sir." 

"An  airing.  An  airing.  Yes."  He  was  blandly  tapping 
his  fingers  on  the  table,  and  casting  his  eyes  up  at  the  window. 
*'  Amy  has  gone  for  an  airing  on  the  Iron  Bridge.  She  has 
become  quite  partial  to  the  Iron  Bridge  of  late,  and  seems  to 
like  to  walk  there  better  than  anywhere.'*  He  returned  to 
conversation.  "Your  father  is  not  on  duty  at  present,  I 
think,  John  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  he  comes  on  later  in  the  afternoon."  Another 
twirl  of  the  great  hat,  and  then  young  John  said,  rising,  "  I 
am  afraid  I  must  wish  you  good-day,  sir." 

"  So  soon  ?  Good-day,  young  John.  Nay,  nay,"  with  the 
utmost  condescension,  "  never  mind  your  glove,  John. 
ShaJce  hands  with  it  on.  You  are  no  stranger  here,  you 
know." 

Highly  gratified  by  the  kindness  of  his  reception,  young 
John  descended  the  staircase.  On  his  way  down  he  met 
some  collegians  bringing  up  visitors  to  be  presented,  and  at 
that  moment  Mr.  Dorrit  happened  to  call  over  the  banisters 
with  particular  distinctness,  "  Much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
little  testimonial,  John  !  " 

Little  Dorrit's  lover  very  soon  laid  down  his  penny  on  the 
toll-plate  of  the  Iron  Bridge,  and  came  upon  it  looking  about 
him  for  the  well-known  and  well-beloved  figure.  At  first  he 
feared  she  was  not  there;  but  as  he  walked  on  toward  the 
Middlesex  side,  he  saw  her  standing  still,  looking  at  the 
water.  She  was  absorbed  in  thought,  and  he  wondered 
what  she  might  be  thinking  about.  There  were  the  piles  of 
city  roofs  and  chimneys,  more  free  from  smoke  than  on 
week-days;  and  there  were  the  distant  masts  and  steeples. 
Perhaps  she  was  thinking  about  them. 

Little  Dorrit  mused  so  long,  and  was  so  entirely  pre-occu- 
pied,  that  although  her  lover  stood  for  what  he  thought 
was  a  long  time,  and  twice  or  thrice  retired  and  came  back 
again  to  the  former  spot,  still  she  did  not  move.  So,  in  the 
end,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  go  on,  and  seem  to  come  upon 
her  casually  in  passing,  and  speak  to  her.  The  place  was 
quiet,  and  now  or  never  was  the  time  to  speak  to  her. 

He  walked  on,  and  she  did  not  appear  to  hear  his  steps 
until  he  was  close  upon  her.  When  he  said  "  Miss  Dorrit !  " 
she  started,  and  fell  back  from  him,  with  an  expression  in 
her  face  of  fright  and  something  like  dislike  that  caused  him 
unutterable  dismay.  She  had  often  avoided  him  before — 
always,  indeed,  for  a  long,  long  while.  She  had  turned  away, 


222  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  glided  off,  so  often,  when  she  had  seen  him  coming  to- 
ward  her,  that  the  unfortunate  young  John  could  not  think 
it  accidental.  But  he  had  hoped  that  it  might  be  shyness, 
her  retiring  character,  her  foreknowledge  of  the  state  of  his 
heart,  any  thing  short  of  aversion.  Now,  that  momentary 
look  had  said,  "  You,  of  all  people  ?  I  would  rather  have 
seen  any  one  on  earth,  than  you  !  *' 

It  was  but  a  momentary  look,  inasmuch  as  she  checked 
it,  and  said  in  her  soft  little  voice,  "  Oh,  Mr.  John  !  Is  it 
you  ? "  But  she  felt  what  it  had  been,  as  he  felt  what  it  had 
been;  and  they  stood  looking  at  one  another  equally  con- 
fused. 

"  Miss  Amy,  I  am  afraid  I  disturbed  you  by  speaking  to 
you." 

"  Yes,  rather.  I — I  came  here  to  be  alone,  and  I  thought 
I  was.*' 

"  Miss  Amy,  I  took  the  liberty  of  walking  this  way,  be- 
cause Mr.  Dorrit  chanced  to  mention,  when  I  called  upon 
him  just  now,  that  you " 

She  caused  him  more  dismay  than  before  by  suddenly 
murmuring,  "  Oh,  father,  father  !  "  in  a  heartrending  tone, 
and  turning  her  face  away. 

"  Miss  Amy,  I  hope  I  don't  give  you  any  uneasiness  by 
naming  Mr.  Dorrit.  I  assure  you  I  found  him  very  well, 
and  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  he  showed  me  even  more  than 
his  usual  kindness;  being  so  very  kind  as  to  say  that  I  was  not 
a  stranger  there,  and  in  all  ways  gratifying  me  very  much." 

To  the  inexpressible  consternation  of  her  lover,  Little 
Dorrit,with  her  hands  to  her  averted  face,  and  rocking  her- 
self where  she  stood,  as  if  she  were  in  pain,  murmured,  "  Oh, 
father,  how  can  you  !  Oh,  dear,  dear  father,  how  can  you, 
can  you  do  it  !  " 

The  poor  fellow  stood  gazing  at  her,  overflowing  with  sym- 
pathy, but  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  this,  until,  having 
taken  out  her  handkerchief  and  put  it  to  her  still  averted 
face,  she  hurried  away.  At  first  he  remained  stock  still; 
then  hurried  after  her. 

"  Miss  Amy,  pray  !  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  stop  a 
moment  ?  Miss  Amy,  if  it  comes  to  that,  let  7ne  go.  I  shall 
go  out  of  my  senses,  if  I  have  to  think  that  I  have  driven 
you  away  like  this." 

His  trembling  voice  and  unfeigned  earnestness  brought 
Little  Dorrit  to  a  stop.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do,"  she 
cried,  "  I  don't  know  what  to  do  ! " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  223 

To  young  John,  who  had  never  seen  her  bereft  of  her 
quiet  self-command,  who  had  seen  her  from  her  infancy  ever 
so  reliable  and  self-suppressed,  there  was  a  shock  in  her  dis- 
tress, and  in  having  to  associate  himself  with  it  as  its  cause, 
that  shook  him  from  his  great  hat  to  the  pavement.  He  felt 
it  necessary  to  explain  himself.  He  might  be  misunderstood — 
supposed  to  mean  something,  or  to  have  done  something,  that 
had  never  entered  into  his  imagination.  He  begged  her  to 
hear  him  explain  himself,  as  the  greatest  favor  she  could 
show  him. 

*'  Miss  Amy,  I  know  very  well  that  your  family  is  far  above 
mine.  It  were  vain  to  conceal  it.  There  never  was  a  Chiv- 
ery  a  gentleman  that  ever  I  heard  of,  and  I  will  not  commit 
the  meanness  of  making  a  false  representation  on  a  subject  so 
momentous.  Miss  Amy,  I  know  very  well  that  your  high- 
souled  brother,  and  likev/ise  your  spirited  sister,  spurn  me 
from  a  height.  What  I  have  to  do  is  to  respect  them,  to  wish 
to  be  admitted  to  their  friendship,  to  look  up  at  the  eminence 
on  which  they  are  placed,  from  my  lowlier  station — for, 
whether  viewed  as  tobacco  or  viewed  as  the  lock,  I  well 
know  it  is  lowly — and  ever  wish  them  well  and  happy.*' 

There  really  was  a  genuineness  in  the  poor  fellow,  and  a 
contrast  between  the  hardness  of  his  hat  and  the  softness  of 
his  heart  (albeit,  perhaps,  of  his  head,  too),  that  was  moving. 
Little  Dorrit  entreated  him  to  disparage  neither  himself  nor 
his  station,  and  above  all  things,  to  divest  himself  of  any 
idea  that  she  supposed  hers  to  be  superior.  This  gave  him 
a  little  comfort. 

"  Miss  Amy,"  he  then  stammered,  "  I  have  had  for  a  long 
time — ages  they  seem  to  me — revolving  ages — a  heart-cher- 
ished wish  to  say  something  to  you.     May  I  say  it  ? " 

Little  Dorrit  involuntarily  started  from  his  side  again,  with 
the  faintest  shadow  of  her  former  look  ;  conquering  that, 
she  went  on  at  great  speed  half  across  the  bridge  without 
replying ! 

"  May  I — Miss  Amy,  I  but  ask  the  question  humbly— may 
I  say  it  ?  I  have  been  so  unlucky  already  in  giving  you  pain, 
without  having  any  such  intentions,  before  the  holy  heavens  ! 
that  there  is  no  fear  of  my  saying  it  unless  I  have  your  leave. 
I  can  be  miserable  alone,  I  can  be  cut  up  by  myself  ;  why 
should  I  also  make  miserable,  and  cut  up  one,  that  I  would 
fling  myself  off  that  parapet  to  give  half  a  moment's  joy  to  ? 
Not  that  that's  much  to  do,  for  I'd  do  it  for  two-pence." 

The  mournfulness  of   his  spirits,  and  the  gorgeousness  of 


224  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

his  appearance,  might  have  made  him  ridiculous,  but  that 
his  dehcacy  made  him  respectable.  Little  Dorrit  learned  from 
it  what  to  do. 

**  If  you  please,  John  Chivery,"  she  returned,  trembling, 
but  in  a  quiet  way,  ^'  since  you  are  so  considerate  as  to  ask 
me  whether  you  shall  say  any  more — if  you  please,  no.". 

"  Never,  Miss  Amy  ? " 

"  No,  if  you  please.     Never." 

"  Oh  Lord  !  "  gasped  young  John. 

"  But  perhaps,  you  will  let  me,  instead,  say  something  to 
you.  I  want  to  say  it  earnestly,  and  with  as  plain  a  mean- 
ing as  it  is  possible  to  express.  When  you  think  of  us,  John 
— I  mean  my  brother  and  sister,  and  me — don't  think  of  us 
as  being  any  different  from  the  rest ;  for,  whatever  we  once 
were  (which  I  hardly  know)  we  ceased  to  be  long  ago,  and 
never  can  be  any  more.  It  will  be  much  better  for  you,  and 
much  better  for  others,  if  you  will  do  that,  instead  of  what 
you  are  doing  now." 

Young  John  dolefully  protested  that  he  would  try  to  bear 
it  in  mind,  and  would  be  heartily  glad  to  do  any  thing  she 
wished. 

^'  As  to  me,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  "  think  as  little  of  me  as 
you  can  ;  the  less  the  better.  When  you  think  of  me  at  all, 
John,  let  it  only  be  as  the  child  you  have  seen  grow  up  in 
the  prison,  with  one  set  of  duties  always  occupying  her  ;  as 
a  weak,  retired,  contented,  unprotected  girl.  I  particularly 
want  you  to  remember,  that  when  I  come  outside  the  gate,  I 
am  unprotected  and  solitary." 

He  would  try  to  do  any  thing  she  wished.  But  why  did 
Miss  Amy  so  much  want  him  to  remember  that  ? 

^'  Because,"  returned  Little  Dorrit,  "  I  know  I  can  then 
quite  trust  you  not  to  forget  to-day,  and  not  to  say  any  more 
to  me.  You  are  so  generous,  that  I  know  I  can  trust  to  you 
for  that ;  and  I  do  and  I  always  will.  I  am  going  to  show 
you,  at  once,  that  I  fully  trust  you.  I  like  this  place  where 
we  are  speaking,  better  than  any  place  I  know  ;  "  her  slight 
color  had  faded,  but  her  lover  thought  he  saw  it  coming  back 
just  then  ;  "  and  I  may  be  often  here.  I  know  it  is  only  nec- 
essary for  me  to  tell  you  so,  to  be  quite  sure  that  you  will 
never  come  here  again  in  search  of  me.  And  I  am — quite 
sure." 

She  might  rely  upon  it,  said  young  John.  He  was  a  mis- 
erable wretch,  but  her  word  was  more  than  law  for  him. 

"And  good-by,  John,"  said  Little  Dorrit.     "And  I  hope 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  2^5 

you  will  have  a  good  wife  one  day,  and  be  a  happy  man.  I 
am  sure  you  will  deserve  to  be  happy,  and  you  will  be, 
John." 

As  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  these  words,  the 
heart  that  was  under  the  waistcoat  of  sprigs — mere  slop- 
work, if  the  truth  must  be  known — swelled  to  the  size  of  the 
heart  of  a  gentleman  ;  and  the  poor  common  little  fellow 
having  no  room  to  hold  it,  burst  into  tears. 

"Oh  don't  cry  !"  said  Little  Dcrrit,  piteously.  "Don't, 
don't !  Good-by,  John.     God  bless  you  !  " 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Amy.     Good-by  !  " 

And  so  he  left  her  :  first  observing  that  she  sat  down  on 
the  corner  of  a  seat,  and  not  only  rested  her  little  hand  upon 
the  rough  wall,  but  laid  her  face  against  it  too,  as  if  her  head 
were  heavy,  and  her  mind  were  sad. 

It  was  an  affecting  illustration  of  the  fallacy  of  human 
projects,  to  behold  her  lover  with  the  great  hat  pulled  over 
his  eyes,  the  velvet  collar  turned  up  as  if  it  rained,  the  plum- 
colored  coat  buttoned  to  conceal  the  silken  waistcoat  of 
golden  sprigs,  and  the  little  direction-post  pointing  inexorably 
home,  creeping  along  by  the  worst  back  streets,  and  compos- 
ing, as  he  went,  the  following  new  inscription  for  a  tomb- 
stone in  St.  George's  Churchyard  : 

"  Here  lie  the  mortal  remains  of_  John  Chivery,  never 
any  thing  worth  mentioning,  who  died  about  the  end  of  the 
year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  twenty-six,  of  a  broken 
heart,  requesting  with  his  last  breath  that  the  word  Amy 
might  be  inscribed  over  his  ashes,  which  was  accordingly  di- 
rected to  be  done,  by  his  afflicted  parents." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MARSHALSEA    IN    TWO    OR    THREE    RELA- 
TIONS. 

The  brothers  William  and  Frederick  Dorrit,  walking  up 
and  down  the  college-yard — of  course  on  the  aristocratic  or 
pump  side,  for  the  father  made  it  a  point  of  his  state  to  be 
chary  of  going  among  his  children  on  the  poor  side,  except 
on  Sunday  mornings,  Christmas  days,  and  other  occasions  of 
ceremony,  in  the  observance  whereof  he  was  very  punctual, 
and  at  which  times  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  heads  of  their 
infants,  and  blessed  those  young  insolvents  with  a  benignity 


226  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  was  highly  edifying — the  brothers,  walking  up  and  down 
the  college-yard  together,  were  a  memorable  sight.  Frederick 
the  free,  was  so  humbled,  bowed,  withered,  and  faded  ;  Wil- 
liam the  bond,  was  so  courtly,  condescending,  and  benevo- 
lently conscious  of  a  position  ;  that  in  this  regard  only,  if  in 
no  other,  the  brothers  were  a  spectacle  to  wonder  at. 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  yard,  on  the  evening  of 
Little  Dorrit*s  Sunday  interview  with  her  lover  on  the  Iron 
Bridge.  The  cares  of  state  were  over  for  that  day,  the  draw- 
.  ing  room  had  been  well  attended,  several  new  presentations 
had  taken  place,  the  three-and-sixpence  accidentally  left  on 
the  table  had  accidentally  increased  to  twelve  shillings,  and 
the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  refreshed  himself  with  a  whiff 
of  cigar.  As  he  walked  up  and  down,  affably  accommoda- 
ting his  step  to  the  shuffle  of  his  brother,  not  proud  in  his 
superiority,  but  considerate  of  that  poor  creature,  bearing 
with  him,  and  breathing  toleration  of  his  infirmities  in  every 
little  puff  of  smoke  that  issued  from  his  lips  and  aspired  to 
get  over  the  spiked  wall,  he  was  a  sight  to  wonder  at. 

His  brother  Frederick  of  the  dim  eye,  palsied  hand,  bent 
form,  and  groping  mind,  submissively  shuffled  at  his  side, 
accepting  his  patronage  as  he  accepted  every  incident  of  the 
labyrinthian  world  in  which  he  had  got  lost.  He  held  the 
usual  screwed  bit  of  whitey  brown  paper  in  his  hand,  from 
which  he  ever  and  again'unscrewed  a  spare  pinch  of  snuff. 
That  falteringly  taken,  he  would  glance  at  his  brother  not 
unadmiringly,  put  his  hands  behind  him,  and  shuffle  on  so 
at  his  side  until  he  took  another  pinch,  or  stood  still  to  look 
about  him — perchance  suddenly  missing  his  clarionet. 

The  college  visitors  were  melting  away  as  the  shades  of 
night  drew  on,  but  the  yard  was  still  pretty  full,  the  collegians 
being  mostly  out,  seeing  their  friends  to  the  lodge.  As  the 
brothers  paced  the  yard,  William  the  bond  looked  about  him 
to  receive  salutes,  returning  them  by  graciously  lifting  off  his 
hat,  and,  with  an  engaging  air,  prevented  Frederick  the  free 
from  running  against  the  company,  or  being  jostled  against 
the  wall.  The  collegians  as  a  body  were  not  easily  impressi- 
ble, but  even  they,  according  to  their  various  ways  of  wonder- 
ing, appeared  to  find  in  the  two  brothers  a  sight  to  wonder  at. 

"  You  are  a  little  low  this  evening,  Frederick,"  said  the 
father   of  the  Marshalsea.     "  Any  thing  the  matter  ? " 

"  The  matter  ? "  He  started  for  a  moment,  and  then 
dropped  his  head  and  eyes  again.  "  No,  William,  no.  Noth- 
ing is  the  matter," 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  227 

"  If  you  could  be  persuaded  to  smarten  yourself  up  a  lit- 
tle, Frederick " 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  said  the  old  man  hurriedly.  *^  But  I  can't  be. 
I  can't  be.     Don't  talk  so.     That's  all  over." 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  glanced  at  a  passing  colle* 
gian  with  whom  he  was  on  friendly  terms,  as  who  should 
say,  **  An  enfeebled  old  man,  this  ;  but  he  is  my  brother, 
sir,  my  brother,  and  the  voice  of  nature  is  potent  !  "  and 
steered  his  brother  clear  of  the  handle  of  the  pump  by  the 
threadbare  sleeve.  Nothing  would  have  been  wanting  to 
the  perfection  of  his  character  as  a  fraternal  guide,  philoso- 
pher, and  friend,  if  he  had  only  steered  his  brother  clear  of 
ruin,  instead  of  bringing  it  upon  him. 

**  I  think,  William,"  said  the  object  of  his  affectionate 
consideration,  "  that  I  am  tired,  and  will  go  home  to  bed." 

*' My  dear  Frederick,"  returned  the  other.  "  Don't  let 
me  detain  you  ;  don't  sacrifice  your  inclinations  to  me." 

"  Late  hours,  and  a  heated  atmosphere,  and  years,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Frederick,  "  weaken  me." 

"  My  dear  Frederick,"  returned  the  father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea, *^  do  you  think  you  are  sufficiently  careful  of  your- 
self ?  Do  you  think  your  habits  are  as  precise  and  methodi- 
cal as — shall  I  say  as  mine  are  ?  Not  to  revert  again  to  that 
little  eccentricity  which  I  mentioned  just  now,  I  doubt  if 
you  take  air  and  exercise  enough,  Frederick.  Here  is  the 
parade,  always  at  your  service.  Why  not  use  it  more  regu- 
larly than  you  do  ?" 

**  Hah  !  "  sighed  the  other.     "  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

"  But  it  is  of  no  use  saying  yes,  yes,  my  dear  Frederick,"  the 
father  of  the  Marshalsea  in  his  mild  wisdom  persisted,  *^  un- 
less you  act  on  that  assent.  Consider  my  case,  Frederick. 
I  am  a  kind  of  example.  Necessity  and  time  have  taught 
me  what  to  do.  At  certain  stated  hours  of  the  day,  you  will 
find  me  on  the  parade,  in  my  room,  in  the  lodge,  reading  the 
paper,  receiving  company,  eating  and  drinking.  I  have  im- 
pressed upon  Amy  during  many  years,  that  I  must  have  my 
meals  (for  instance)  punctually.  Amy  has  grown  up  in  a 
sense  of  the  importance  of  these  arrangements,  and  you 
know  what  a  good  girl  she  is." 

The  brother  only  sighed  again  as  he  plodded  dreamily 
along,  ^'  Hah  !     Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea,  lay- 
ing his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  mildly  rallying  him — 
mildly,  because  of  his  weakness,  poor  dear  soul ;  "  you  said 


228  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  before,  and  it  does  not  express  much,  Frederick,  even  if 
it  means  much.  I  wish  I  could  rouse  you,  my  good  Freder- 
ick ;  you  want  to  be  roused." 

*'  Yes,  William,  yes.  No  doubt,"  returned  the  other,  lift- 
ing his  dim  eyes  to  his  face.     *'  But  I  am  not  like  you." 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  said,  with  a  shrug  of  mod- 
est self-depreciation,  **  Oh  !  You  might  be  like  me,  my 
dear  Frederick  ;  you  might  be,  if  you  choose  !  "  and  forbor.e, 
in  the  magnanimity  of  his  strength,  to  press  his  fallen 
brother  further. 

There  was  a  deal  of  leave-taking  going  on  in  corners,  as 
was  usual  on  Sunday  nights  ;  and  here  and  there  in  the  dark, 
some  poor  woman,  wife  or  mother,  was  weeping  with  a  new 
collegian.  The  time  had  been  when  the  father  himself  had 
wept,  in  the  shades  of  the  yard,  as  his  own  poor  wife  had 
wept.  But  it  was  many  years  ago  ;  and  now  he  was  like  a 
passenger  aboard  ship  in  a  long  voyage,  who  has  recovered 
from  sea-sickness,  and  is  impatient  of  that  weakness  in  the 
fresher  passengers  taken  aboard  at  the  last  port.  He  was  in- 
clined to  remonstrate,  and  express  his  opinion  that  people 
who  couldn't  get  on  without  crying,  had  no  business  there. 
In  manner,  if  not  in  words,  he  always  testified  his  displeas- 
ure at  these  interruptions  of  the  general  harmony  ;  and  it 
was  so  well  understood,  that  delinquents  usually  withdrew  if 
they  were  aware  of  him. 

On  this  Sunday  evening,  he  accompanied  his  brother  to 
the  gate  with  an  air  of  endurance  and  clemency  ;  being  in  a 
bland  temper  and  graciously  disposed  to  overlook  the  tears. 
In  the  flaring  gaslight  of  the  lodge,  several  collegians  were 
basking  ;  some  taking  leave  of  visitors,  and  some  who  had 
no  visitors,  watching  the  frequent  turning  of  the  key,  and 
conversing  with  one  another  and  with  Mr.  Chivery.  The 
paternal  entrance  made  a  sensation  of  course  ;  and  Mr. 
Chivery,  touching  his  hat  (in  a  short  manner  though)  with 
his  key,  hoped  he  found  himself  tolerable. 

*'  Thank  you,  Chivery,  quite  well.     And  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Chivery  said  in  a  low  growl,  *^  Oh  !  he  was  all  right." 
Which  was  his  general  way  of  acknowledging  inquiries  after 
his  health,  when  a  little  sullen, 

"  I  had  a  visit  from  young  John  to-day,  Chivery.  And 
very  smart  he  looked,  I  assure  you." 

So  Mr.  Chivery  had  heard.  Mr.  Chivery  must  confess, 
however,  that  his  wish  was  that  the  boy  didn't  lay  out  so 
much  money  upon  it.    For  what  did  it  bring  him  in  ?     It  only 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  229 

brought  him  in  wexation.     And  he  could  get  that  anywhere, 
for  nothing.'* 

"  How  vexation,  Chivery  •* "  asked  the  benignant  father. 

**  No  odds,"  returned  Mr.  Chivery.  "  Never  mind.  Mr. 
Frederick  going  out  ?  " 

"Yes,  Chivery,  my  brother  is  going  home  to  bed.  He  is 
tired,  and  not  quite  well.  Take  care,  Frederick,  take  care. 
Good-night,  my  dear  Frederick  !  " 

Shaking  hands  with  his  brother,  and  touching  his  greasy 
hat  to  the  company  in  the  lodge,  Frederick  slowly  shuffled 
out  of  the  door  which  Mr.  Chivery  unlocked  for  him.  The 
father  of  the  Marshalsea  showed  the  amiable  soHcitude  of  a 
superior  being  that  he  should  come  to  no  harm. 

"  Be  so  kind  as  to  keep  the  door  open  a  moment,  Chivery, 
that  I  may  see  him  go  along  the  passage  and  down  the  steps. 
Take  care,  Frederick  !  (He  is  very  infirm.)  Mind  the 
steps  !  (He  is  so  very  absent.)  Be  careful  how  you  cross, 
Frederick.  (I  really  don't  like  the  notion  of  his  going 
wandering  at  large,  he  is  so  extremely  liable  to  be  run  over.)" 

With  these  words,  and  with  a  face  expressive  of  many 
uneasy  doubts  and  much  anxious  guardianship,  he  turned 
hia  regards  upon  the  assembled  company  in  the  lodge  ;  so 
plainly  indicating  that  his  brother  was  to  be  pitied  for  not 
being  under  lock  and  key,  that  an  opinion  to  that  effect  went 
round  among  the  collegians  assembled. 

But  he  did  not  receive  it  with  unqualified  assent  ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  said,  no,  gentlemen,  no  ;  let  them  not  mis- 
understand him.  His  brother  Frederick  was  much  broken, 
no  doubt,  and  it  might  be  more  comfortable  to  himself  (the 
father  of  the  Marshalsea)  to  know  that  he  was  safe  within 
the  walls.  Still,  it  must  be  remembered  that  to  support  an 
existence  there  during  many  years,  required  a  certain  com- 
bination of  qualities — he  did  not  say  high  qualities,  but 
qualities — moral  qualities.  Now,  had  his  brother  Frederick 
that  peculiar  union  of  qualities  ?  Gentlemen,  he  was  a 
most  excellent  man,  a  most  gentle,  tender,  and  estimable 
man,  with  the  sympathy  of  a  child  ;  but  would  he,  though 
unsuited  for  most  other  places,  do  for  that  place  ?  No;  he  said, 
confidently,  no  !  And  he  said  heaven  forbid  that  Frederick 
should  be  there  in  any  other  character  than  in  his  present  vol- 
untary character  !  Gentlemen,  whoever  came  to  that  college, 
to  remain  there  a  length  of  time,  must  have  strength  of  charac- 
ter to  go  through  a  good  deal  and  to  come  out  of  a  good  deal. 
Was  his  beloved  brother  Frederick  that  man  ?  No.    They  saw 


230  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

him,  even  as  it  was,  crushed.  Misfortune  crushed  him.  He 
had  not  power  of  recoil  enough,  not  elasticity  enough,  to  be 
a  long  time  in  such  a  place,  and  yet  preserve  his  self-respect 
and  feel  conscious  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  Frederick 
had  not  (if  he  might  use  the  expression)  power  enough  to 
see  in  any  delicate  little  attentions  and — and — testimonials 
that  he  might  under  such  circumstances  receive,  the  good- 
ness of  human  nature,  the  fine  spirit  animating  the  colle- 
gians as  a  community,  and  at  the  same  time  no  degradation 
to  himself,  and  no  depreciation  of  his  claims  as  a  gentleman. 
Gentlemen,  God  bless  you  ! 

Such  was  the  homily  with  which  he  improved  and  pointed 
the  occasion  to  the  company  in  the  lodge,  before  turning 
into  the  sallow  yard  again,  and  going  with  his  own  poor 
shabby  dignity  past  the  collegian  in  the  dressing-gown  who 
had  no  coat,  and  past  the  collegian  in  the  sea-side  slippers 
who  had  no  shoes,  and  past  the  stout  green-grocer  collegian 
in  the  corduroy  knee-breeches  who  had  no  cares,  and  past 
the  lean  clerk  collegian  in  buttonless  black  who  had  no 
hopes,  up  his  own  poor  shabby  staircase,  to  his  own  poor 
shabby  room. 

There  the  table  was  laid  for  his  supper,  and  his  old  gray 
gown  was  ready  for  him  on  his  chair-back  at  the  fire.  His 
daughter  put  her  little  prayer  book  in  her  pocket — had  she 
been  praying  for  pity  on  all  prisoners  and  captives  ! — and 
rose  to  welcome  him. 

Uncle  had  gone  home,  then  ?  she  asked  hini;  as  she  changed 
his  coat  and  gave  him  his  black  velvet  cap.  Yes,  uncle 
had  gone  home.  Had  her  father  enjoyed  his  walk  ?  Why 
not  much,  Amy  ;  not  much.     No  !  Did  he  not  feel  quite  well  I 

As  she  stood  behind  him,  leaning  over  his  chair  so  lov- 
ingly, he  looked  with  downcast  eyes  at  the  fire.  An  uneasi- 
ness stole  over  him  that  was  like  the  touch  of  shame  ;  and 
when  he  spoke,  as  he  presently  did,  it  was  in  an  unconnected 
and  embarrassed  manner. 

^'  Something,  I — hem  ! — I  don't  know  what,  has  gone 
wrong  with  Chivery.  He  is  not — ha  ! — not  nearly  so  oblig- 
ing and  attentive  as  usual  to-night.  It — hem  ! — it's  a  little 
thing,  but  it  puts  me  out,  my  love.  It's  impossible  to  for- 
get," turning  his  hands  over  and  over,  and  looking  closely 
at  them,  *'  that — hem  ! — that  in  such  a  life  as  mine,  I  am 
unfortunately  dependent  on  these  men  for  something,  every 
hour  in  the  day." 

Her  arm  was  on  his  shoulder,  but  she  did  not  look  in  his 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  231 

/ace  while  he  spoke.  Bending  her  head  she  looked  another 
way. 

"  I — hem  !  I  can't  think,  Amy,  what  has  given  Chivery 
offense.  He  is  generally  so — so  very  attentive  and  respectful, 
And  to-night  he  was  quite — quite  short  with  me.  Other 
people  there,  too  !  Why,  good  heaven  !  if  I  was  to  lose  the 
support  and  recognition  of  Chivery  and  his  brother  officers, 
I  might  starve  to  death  here."  While  he  spoke,  he  was  open- 
ing and  shutting  his  hands  like  valves  ;  so  conscious  all  the 
time  of  that  touch  of  shame,  that  he  shrunk  before  his  own 
knowledge  of  his  meaning. 

"I — ha  ! — I  can't  think  what  it's  owing  to.  I  am  sure  I 
can  not  imagine  what  the  cause  of  it  is.  There  was  a  certain 
Jackson  here  once,  a  turnkey  of  the  name  of  Jackson  (I 
don't  think  you  can  remember  him,  my  dear,  you  were  very 
young),  and — hem  ! — and  he  had  a — brother,  and  this — 
young  brother  paid  his  addresses  to — at  least,  did  not  go  so 
far  as  to  pay  his  addresses  to — but  admired — respectfully 
admired — the — not  the  daughter,  the  sister — of  one  of  us  ; 
a  rather  distinguished  collegian  ;  I  may  say,  very  much  so. 
His  name  was  Captain  Martin  ;  and  he  consulted  me  on 
the  question  whether  it  was  necessary  that  his  daughter — 
sister — should  hazard  offending  the  turnkey  brother  by  being 
too — ha  ! — too  plain  with  the  other  brother.  Captain  Martin 
was  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor,  and  I  put  it  to  him  first 
to  give  me  his — his  own  opinion.  Captain  Martin  (highly 
respected  in  the  army)  then  unhesitatingly  said,  that  it  ap- 
peared to  him  that  his — hem  ! — sister  was  not  called  upon 
to  understand  the  young  man  too  distinctly,  and  that  she 
might  lead  him  on — I  am  doubtful  whether  lead  him  on  was 
Captain  Martin's  exact  expression  ;  indeed,  I  think  he  said 
tolerate  him — on  her  father's — I  should  say,  brother's — ac- 
count. I  hardly  know  how  I  have  strayed  into  this  story. 
I  suppose  it  has  been  through  being  unable  to  account  for 
Chivery  ;  but  as  to  the  connection  between  the  two,  I  don't 
see •" 

His  voice  died  away,  as  if  she  could  not  bear  the  pain  of 
hearing  him,  and  her  hand  had  gradually  crept  to  his  lips. 
For  a  little  while  there  was  a  dead  silence  and  stillness,  and 
he  remained  shrunk  in  his  chair,  and  she  remained  with  her 
arm  round  his  neck,  and  her  head  bowed  down  upon  his 
shoulder. 

His  supper  was  cooking  in  a  saucepan  on  the  fire,  and 
when  she  moved,  it  was  to  make  it  ready  for  him  on  the  table. 


232  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

He  took  his  usual  seat,  she  took  hers,  and  he  began  his  meal. 
They  did  not,  as  yet,  look  at  one  another.  By  little  and 
little  he  began  ;  laying  down  his  knife  and  fork  with  a  noise, 
taking  things  up  sharply,  biting  at  his  bread  as  if  he  were 
offended  with  it,  and  in  other  similar  ways  showing  that  he 
was  out  of  sorts.  At  length  he  pushed  his  plate  from  him, 
and  spoke  aloud,  with  the  strangest  inconsistency  : 
'  *'  What  does  it  matter  whether  I  eat  or  starve  ?  What 
does  it  matter  whether  such  a  blighted  life  as  mine  comes  to 
an  end  now,  next  week,  or  next  year  ?  What  am  1  worth  to 
any  one  ?  A  poor  prisoner,  fed  on  alms  and  broken  victuals  ; 
a  squalid,  disgraced  wretch  !  " 

*'  Father,  father  !  "  As  he  rose,  she  v/ent  on  her  knees  to 
him,  and  held  up  her  hands  to  him. 

"  Amy,"  he  went  on,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  trembling  vio- 
lently, arid  looking  at  her  as  wildly  as  if  he  had  gone  mad, 
^^  I  tell  you,  if  you  could  see  me  as  your  mother  saw  me,  you 
wouldn't  believe  it  to  be  the  creature  you  have  only  looked 
at  through  the  bars  of  this  cage.  I  was  young,  I  was  accom- 
plished, I  was  good-looking,  I  was  independent — by  God,  I 
was,  child  ! — and  people  sought  me  out  and  envied  me.  En- 
vied me  !  *' 

"  Dear  father  !  "     She  tried  to  take  down  the  shaking  arm 
that  he  flourished  in  the  air,  but  he  resisted,  and  put  her  hand 
•  away. 

^*  If  I  had  but  a  picture  of  myself  in  those  days,  though  it 
was  ever  so  ill  done,  you  would  be  proud  of  it,  you  would  be 
proud  of  it.  But  I  have  no  such  thing.  Now,  let  me  be  a 
warning  !  Let  no  man,"  he  cried,  looking  haggardly  about, 
^'  fail  to  preserve  at  least  that  little  of  the  times  of  his  pros- 
perity and  respect.  Let  his  children  have  that  clew  to  what 
he  was.  Unless  my  face,  when  I  am  dead,  subsides  into  the 
long  departed  look — they  say  such  things  happen,  I  don't 
know — my  children  will  have  never  seen  me." 

"  Father,  father  !  " 

"  Oh  despise  me,  despise  me  !  Look  away  from  me,  don't 
listen  to  me,  stop  me,  blush  for  me,  cry  for  me — even  you, 
Amy  !  Do  it,  do  it  I  I  do  it  to  myself  !  I  am  hardened 
now,  I  have  sunk  too  low  to  care  long  even  for  that." 

*'  Dear  father,  loved  father,  darling  of  my  heart !  "  She 
was  clinging  to  him  with  her  arms,  and  she  got  him  to  drop 
into  his  chair  again,  and  caught  at  the  raised  arm  and  tried 
to  put  it  round  her  neck. 

"  Let  it  lie  there,  father.     Look  at  me,  father ;  kiss  me, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  233 

father !  Only  think  of  me,  father,  for  one  little  mo- 
ment !  " 

Still  he  went  on  in  the  same  wild  way,  though  it  was  grad- 
ually breaking  down  into  a  miserable  whining. 

*'  And  I  have  some  respect  here.  I  have  made  some  stand 
against  it  I  am  not  quite  trodden  down.  Go  out  and  ask 
who  is  the  chief  person  in  the  pLice.  They'll  tell  you  it's 
your  father.  Go  out  and  ask  who  is  never  trifled  with,  and 
v/ho  is  always  treated  with  some  delicacy.  They'll  say,  your 
father.  Go  out  and  ask  what  funeral  here  (it  must  be  here, 
I  know  it  can  be  nowhere  else)  will  make  more  talk,  and  per- 
haps more  grief,  than  any  that  has  ever  gone  out  at  the  gate. 
They'll  say,  your  father's.  Well  then.  Amy!  Amy  !  Is  your 
father  so  universally  despised  ?  Is  there  nothing  to  redeem 
him  ?  Will  you  have  nothing  to  remember  him  by,  but  his 
ruin  and  decay  ?  Will  you  be  able  to  have  no  affection  for 
him  when  he  is  gone,  poor  castaway,  gone  ?  " 

He  burst  into  tears  of  maudlin  pity  for  himself,  and  at 
length  suffering  her  to  embrace  him,  and  take  charge  of  him, 
let  his  gray  head  rest  against  her  cheek,  and  bewail  his 
wretchedness.  Presently  he  changed  the  subject  of  his 
lamentations,  and  clasping  his  hands  about  her  as  she  em- 
braced him,  cried.  Oh  Amy,  his  motherless,  forlorn  child  ! 
Oh  the  days  that  he  had  seen  her  careful  and  laborious  for 
him  !  Then  he  reverted  to  himself,  and  weakly  told  her  how 
much  better  she  would  have  loved  him  if  she  had  known  him 
in  his  vanished  character,  and  how  he  would  have  married 
her  to  a  gentleman  who  should  have  been  proud  of  her  as  his 
daughter,  and  how  (at  which  he  cried  again)  she  should  first 
have  ridden  at  his  fatherly  side  on  her  own  horse,  and  how 
the  crowd  (by  which  he  meant  in  effect  the  people  who  had 
given  him  the  twelve  shillings  he  then  had  in  his  pocket) 
should  have  trudged  the  dusty  roads  respectfully. 

Thus,  now  boasting,  now  despairing,  in  either  fit  a  captive 
with  the  jail-rot  upon  him,  and  the  impurity  of  his  prison 
worn  into  the  grain  of  his  soul,  he  revealed  the  degenerate 
state  to  his  affectionate  child.  No  one  else  ever  beheld  him 
in  the  details  of  his  humiliation.  Little  recked  the  collegians 
who  were  laughing  in  their  rooms  over  his  late  address  in 
the  lodge,  what  a  serious  picture  they  had  in  their  obscure 
gallery  of  the  Marshalsea  that  Sunday  night. 

There  was  a  classical  daughter  once — perhaps — who  minis- 
tered to  her  father  in  his  prison  as  her  mother  had  ministered 
to  her.     Little  Dorrit,  though  of  the  unheroic  modern  stock, 


234  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  mere  English,  did  much  more,  in  comforting  her  father's 
wasted  heart  upon  her  innocent  breast,  and  turning  to  it  a 
fountain  of  love  and  fidelity  that  never  ran  dry  or  waned, 
through  all  his  years  of  famine. 

She  soothed  him  ;  and  asked  him  for  his  forgiveness  if 
she  had  been,  or  seemed  to  have  been,  undutiful;  told  him, 
heaven  knows  truly,  that  she  could  not  honor  him  more  if 
he  were  the  favorite  of  fortune  and  the  whole  world  acknowl- 
edged him.  When  his  tears  were  dried,  and  he  sobbed 
in  his  weakness  no  longer,  and  was  free  from  that  touch 
of  shame,  and  had  recovered  his  usual  bearing,  she  prepared 
the  remains  of  his  supper  afresh,  and  sitting  by  his  side,  re- 
joiced to  see  him  eat  and  drink.  For,  now  he  sat  in  his  black 
velvet  cap  and  old  gray  gown,  magnanimous  again;  and 
would  have  comported  himself  toward  any  collegian  who 
might  have  looked  in  to  ask  his  advice,  like  a  great  moral 
Lord  Chesterfield,  or  master  of  the  ethical  ceremonies  of  the 
Marshalsea. 

To  keep  his  attention  engaged,  she  talked  with  him  about 
his  wardrobe;  when  he  was  pleased  to  say,  that  yes,  indeed, 
those  shirts  she  proposed  would  be  exceedingly  acceptable, 
for  those  he  had  were  worn  out,  and,  being  ready-made,  had 
never  fitted  him.  Being  conversational,  and  in  a  reasonable 
flow  of  spirits,  he  then  invited  her  attention  to  his  coat  as  it 
hung  behind  the  door:  remarking  that  the  father  of  the 
place  would  set  an  indifferent  example  to  his  children,  already 
disposed  to  be  slovenly,  if  he  went  among  them  out  at  elbows. 
He  was  jocular,  too,  as  to  the  heeling  of  his  shoes;  but  be- 
came grave  on  the  subject  of  his  cravat,  and  promised  her 
that  when  she  could  afford  it,  she  should  buy  him  a  new  one. 

While  he  smoked  out  his  cigar  in  peace,  she  made  his  bed 
and  put  the  small  room  in  order  for  his  repose.  Being  weary 
then,  owing  to  the  advanced  hour  and  his  emotions,  he  came 
out  of  his  chair  to  bless  her  and  wish  her  good-night.  All 
this  time  he  had  never  once  thought  of  her  dress,  her  shoes, 
her  need  of  any  thing.  No  other  person  upon  earth,  save 
herself,  could  have  been  so  unmindful  of  her  wants. 

He  kissed  her  many  times  with  **  Bless  you,  my  love. 
Good-night,  my  dear  !  " 

But  her  gentle  breast  had  been  so  deeply  wounded  by 
what  she  had  seen  of  him,  that  she  was  unwilling  to  leave 
him  alone,  lest  he  should  lament  and  despair  again.  "  Father 
dear,  I  am  not  tired;  let  me  come  back  presently,  when  you 
are  in  bed,  and  sit  by  you." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  235 

He  asked  her  with  an  air  of  protection,  if  she  felt  solitary? 

''  Yes,  father." 

"  Then  come  back  by  all  means,  my  love/* 

^^  I  shall  be  very  quiet,  father." 

*'  Don't  think  of  me,  my  dear,"  he  said,  giving  her  his 
kind  permission  fully.     *^  Come  back  by  all  means." 

He  seemed  to  be  dozing  when  she  returned,  and  she  put 
the  low  fire  together  very  softly  lest  she  should  awake  him. 
But  he  overheard  her,  and  called  out  who  was  that  ? 

"Only  Amy,  father." 

"  Amy,  my  child,  come  here.  I  want  to  say  a  word  to 
you." 

He  raised  himself  a  little  in  his  low  bed,  as  she  kneeled 
beside  it  to  bring  her  face  near  him;  and  put  his  hand  be- 
tween hers.  Oh  !  Both  the  private  father,  and  the  father  of 
the  Marshalsea  were  strong  within  him  then. 

*^  My  love,  you  have  had  a  life  of  hardship  here.  No  com- 
panions, no  recreations,  many  cares,  I  am  afraid  ? " 

"  Don't  think  of  that,  dear.     I  never  do." 

"  You  know  my  position,  Amy.  I  have  not  been  able  to 
do  much  for  you;  but  all  I  have  been  able  to  do,  I  have 
done." 

**  Yes,  my  dear  father,"  she  rejoined,  kissing  him.  *^  I 
know,  I  kno\^." 

"  I  am  in  the  twenty-third  year  of  my  life  here,"  he  said, 
with  a  catch  in  his  breath  that  was  not  so  much  a  sob  as  an 
irrepressible  sound  of  self-approval,  the  momentary  outburst 
of  a  noble  consciousness.  "  It  is  all  I  could  do  for  my  chil- 
dren— I  have  done  it.  Amy,  my  love,  you  are  by  far  the 
best  loved  of  the  three;  I  have  had  you  principally  in  my  mind 
— whatever  I  have  done  for  your  sake,  my  dear  child,  I  have 
done  freely  and  without  murmuring." 

Only  the  wisdom  that  holds  the  clew  to  all  hearts  and  all 
mysteries,  can  surely  know  to  what  extent  a  man,  especially 
a  man  brought  down  as  this  man  had  been,  can  impose  upon 
himself.  Enough,  for  the  present  place,  that  he  lay  down 
with  wet  eye-lashes,  serene,  in  a  manner  majestic,  after  be- 
stowing his  life  of  degradation  as  a  sort  of  portion  on 
the  devoted  child  upon  whom  its  miseries  had  fallen  so 
heavily,  and  whose  love  alone  had  saved  him  to  be  even  what 
he  was. 

That  child  had  no  doubts,  asked  herself  no  questions, 
for  she  was  but  too  content  to  see  him  with  a  luster 
round   his  head.     Poor   dear,   good   dear,   truest,   kindest, 


236  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

dearest,  were  the  only  words  she  had  for  him,  as  she  hushed 
him  to  rest. 

She  never  left  him  all  that  night.  As  if  she  had  done 
him  a  wrong  which  her  tenderness  could  hardly  repair,  she 
sat  by  him  in  his  sleep,  at  times  softly  kissing  him  with  sus- 
pended breath,  and  calling  him  in  a  whisper  by  some  en- 
dearing name.  At  times  she  stood  aside,  so  as  not  to  inter- 
cept the  low  fire-light,  and,  watching  him  when  it  fell  upon 
his  sleeping  face,  wondered  did  he  look  now  at  all  as  he  had 
looked  when  he  was  prosperous  and  happy;  as  he  had  so 
touched  her  by  imagining  that  he  might  look  once  more 
in  that  awful  time.  At  the  thought  of  that  time,  she 
kneeled  beside  his  bed  again,  and  prayed.  **  Oh  spare 
his  life  !  Oh  save  him  to  me  !  Oh  look  down  upon  my 
dear,  long-suffering,  unfortunate,  much-changed,  dear,  dear 
father  !  " 

Not  until  the  morning  came  to  protect  him  and  encourage 
him,  did  she  give  him  a  last  kiss  and  leave  the  small  room. 
When  she  had  stolen  down  stairs,  and  along  the  empty  yard, 
and  had  crept  up  to  her  own  high  garret,  the  smokeless 
house-tops  and  the  distant  country  hills  were  discernible 
over  the  wall  in  the  clear  morning.  As  she  gently  opened 
the  window,  and  looked  eastward  down  the  prison-yard,  the 
spikes  upon  the  wall  were  tipped  with  red,  then  made  a  sul- 
len purple  pattern  on  the  sun  as  it  came  flaming  up  into  the 
heavens.  The  spikes  had  never  looked  so  sharp  and  cruel, 
nor  the  bars  so  heavy,  nor  the  prison  space  so  gloomy  and 
contracted.  She  thought  of  the  sunrise  on  rolling  rivers,  of 
the  sunrise  on  wide  seas,  of  the  sunrise  on  rich  landscapes, 
of  the  sunrise  on  great  forests  where  the  birds  were  waking 
and  the  trees  were  rustling  ;  and  she  looked  down  into  the 
living  grave  on  which  the  sun  had  risen,  with  her  father  in 
it,  three-and-twenty  years,  and  said,  in  a  burst  of  sorrow 
and  compassion,  '*  No,  no,  I  have  never  seen  him  in  my 
life  !  " 


CHAPTER    XX. 

MOVING     IN    SOCIETY, 

If  young  John  Chivery  had  had  the  inclination,  and  the 
power,  to  write  a  satire  on  family  pride,  he  would  have  had 
no  need  to  go  for  an  avenging  illustration  out  of  the  family 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  237 

of  his  beloved.  He  would  have  found  it  amply  in  that 
gallant  brother  and  that  dainty  sister,  so  steeped  in  mean 
experiences,  and  so  loftily  conscious  of  the  family  name  ;  so 
ready  to  beg  or  borrow  from  the  poorest,  to  eat  of  any  body's 
bread,  spend  any  body's  money,  drink  from  any  body's  cup 
and  break  it  afterward.  To  have  painted  the  sordid  facts 
of  their  lives,  and  they  throughout  invoking  the  death's  head 
apparition  of  the  family  gentility  to  come  and  scare  their 
benefactors,  would  have  made  young  John  a  satirist  of  the 
first  water. 

Tip  had  turned  his  liberty  to  hopeful  account  by  becoming 
a  billiard-marker.  He  had  troubled  himself  so  little  as  to  the 
means  of  his  release,  that  Clennam  scarcely  needed  to  have 
been  at  the  pains  of  impressing  the  mind  of  Mr.  Plornish  on 
that  subject.  Whoever  had  paid  him  the  compliment,  he  very 
readily  accepted  the  compliment  with  his  compliments,  and 
there  was  an  end  of  it.  Issuing  forth  from  the  gate  on  these 
easy  terms,  he  became  a  billiard-marker  ;  and  now  occasion- 
ally looked  in  at  the  little  skittle-ground  in  a  green  Newmar- 
ket coat  (second-hand),  with  a  shining  collar  and  bright 
buttons  (new),  and  drank  the  beer  of  the  collegians. 

One  solid  stationary  point  in  the  looseness  of  this  gentle- 
man's character,  was,  that  he  respected  and  admired  his 
sister  Amy.  The  feeling  had  never  induced  him  to  spare 
her  a  moment's  uneasiness,  or  to  put  himself  to  any  restraint 
or  inconvenience  on  her  account  ;  but  with  that  Marshalsea 
taint  upon  his  love,  he  loved  her.  The  same  rank  Marshalsea 
flavor  was  to  be  recognized  in  his  distinctly  perceiving  that 
she  sacrificed  her  life  to  her  father,  and  in  his  having  no 
idea  that  she  had  done  any  thing  for  himself. 

When  this  spirited  young  man,  and  his  sister,  had  begun 
systematically  to  produce  the  family  skeleton  for  the  over- 
awing of  the  college,  this  narrative  can  not  precisely  state. 
Probably  at  about  the  period  when  they  began  to  dine  on  the 
college  charity.  It  is  certain  that  the  more  reduced  and 
necessitous  they  were,  the  more  pompously  the  skeleton 
emerged  from  its  tomb  ;  and  that  when  there  was  any  thing 
particularly  shabby  in  the  wind,  the  skeleton  always  came 
out  with  the  ghastliest  flourish. 

Little  Dorrit  was  late  on  the  Monday  morning,  for  her 
father  slept  late,  and  afterward  there  was  his  breakfast  to 
prepare  and  his  room  to  arrange.  She  had  no  engagement  to 
go  out  to  work,  however,  and  therefore  staid  with  him  until, 
with  Maggy's  help,  she  had  put  everything  right  about  him, 


238  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  had  seen  him  off  upon  his  morning  walk  (of  twenty  yards 
or  so)  to  the  coffee-house  to  read  the  paper.  She  then  got  on 
her  bonnet  and  went  out,  having  been  anxious  to  get  out 
much  sooner.  There  was,  as  usual,  a  cessation  of  the  small- 
talk  in  the  lodge  as  she  passed  through  it  ;  and  a  collegian 
who  had  come  in  on  Saturday  night,  received  the  intimation 
from  the  elbow  of  a  more  seasoned  collegian,  "  Look  out. 
Here  she  is  !  " 

She  wanted  to  see  her  sister,  but  when  she  got  round  to 
Mr.  Cripples's,  she  found  that  both  her  sister  and  her  uncle 
had  gone  to  the  theater  where  they  were  engaged.  Having 
taken  thought  of  this  probability  by  the  way,  and  having  set- 
tled that  in  such  case  she  would  follow  them,  she  set  off  afresh 
for  the  theater,  which  was  on  that  side  of  the  river,  and  not 
very  far  away. 

Little  Dorrit  was  almost  as  ignorant  of  the  ways  of  theaters 
as  of  the  ways  of  gold  mines,  and  when  she  v/as  directed  to  a 
furtive  sort  of  door,  with  a  curious  up-all-night  air  about  it, 
that  appeared  to  be  ashamed  of  itself  and  to  be  hiding  in  an 
alley,  she  hesitated  to  approach  it ;  being  further  deterred  by 
the  sight  of  some  half-dozen  close-shaved  gentlemen,  with 
their  hats  very  strangely  on,  who  were  lounging  about  the 
door,  looking  not  at  all  unlike  collegians.  On  her  applying 
to  them,  reassured  by  this  resemblance,  for  a  direction  to  Miss 
Dorrit,  they  made  way  for  her  to  enter  a  dark  hall — it  was 
more  like  a  great  grim  lamp  gone  out  than  any  thing  else — 
where  she  could  hear  the  distant  playing  of  music  and  the 
sound  of  dancing  feet.  A  man  so  much  in  want  of  airing  that 
he  had  a  blue  mold  upon  him,  sat  watching  this  dark  place 
from  a  hole  in  a  corner,  like  a  spider  ;  and  he  told  her  that 
he  would  send  a  message  up  to  Miss  Dorrit  by  the  first  lady 
or  gentleman  who  went  through.  The  first  lady  who  went 
through  had  a  roll  of  music,  half  in  her  muff  and  half  out  of 
it,  and  was  in  such  a  tumbled  condition  altogether,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  it  would  be  an  act  of  kindness  to  iron  her.  But 
as  she  was  very  good-natured,  and  said  '^  Come  with  me  ;  I'll 
soon  find  Miss  Dorrit  for  you,"  Miss  Dorrit's  sister  went  with 
her,  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  at  every  step  she  took  in  the 
darkness,  to  the  sound  of  music  and  the  sound  of  dancing 
feet. 

At  last  they  came  into  a  maze  of  dust,  where  a  quantity  of 
people  were  tumbling  over  one  another,  and  where  there  was 
such  a  confusion  of  unaccountable  shapes  of  beams,  bulk- 
heads, brick  walls,  ropes,  and  rollers,  and  such  a  mixture  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  239 

gaslight  and  daylight,  that  they  seemed  to  have  got  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  pattern  of  the  universe.  Little  Dorrit,  left 
to  herself,  and  knocked  against  by  somebody  every  moment, 
was  quite  bewildered  when  she  heard  her  sister's  voice. 

"  Why,  good  gracious,  Amy,  what  ever  brought  you  here  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Fanny  dear  ;  anfl  as  I  am  going  out 
all  day  to-morrow,  and  knew  you  might  be  engaged  all  day 
to-day,  I  thought " 

^^  But  the  idea,  Amy,  of  you  coming  behind  !  I  never 
did  !  "  As  her  sister  said  this  in  no  very  cordial  tone  of  wel- 
come, she  conducted  her  to  a  more  open  part  of  the  maze, 
where  various  golden  chairs  and  tables  were  heaped  together, 
and  where  a  number  of  young  ladies  were  sitting  on  any 
thing  they  could  find,  chattering.  All  these  young  ladies 
wanted  ironing,  and  all  had  a  curious  way  of  looking  every- 
where, while  they  chattered. 

Just  as  the  sisters  arrived  here,  a  monotonous  boy  in  a 
Scotch  cap  put  his  head  round  a  beam  on  the  left,  and  said, 
"  Less  noise  there,  ladies  !  "  and  disappeared.  Immediately 
after  which,  a  sprightly  gentleman  with  a  quantity  of  long 
black  hair  looked  round  abeam  on  the  right,  and  said,  ''  Less 
noise  there,  darlings  !  "  and  also  disappeared. 

"  The  notion  of  you  among  professionals.  Amy,  is  really 
the  last  thing  I  could  have  conceived  !  "  said  her  sister. 
**  Why,  how  did  you  ever  get  here  ?  '* 

"  I  don't  know.  The  lady  who  told  you  I  was  here,  was 
so  good  as  to  bring  me  in." 

*'  Like  you  quiet  little  things  !  You  can  make  your  way 
anywhere,  I  believe.  /  couldn't  have  managed  it,  Amy, 
though  I  know  so  much  more  of  the  world!" 

It  was  the  family  custom  to  lay  it  down  as  a  family  law, 
that  she  was  a  plain  domestic  little  creature,  without  the 
great  and  sage  experience  of  the  rest.  This  family  fiction 
was  the  family  assertion  of  itself  against  her  services.  Not 
to  make  too  much  of  them. 

**  Well  !  And  what  have  you  got  on  your  mind.  Amy  ?  Of 
course  you  have  got  something  on  your  mimd,  about  me  ?" 
said  Fanny.  She  spoke  as  if  her  sister,  between  two  and 
three  years  her  junior,  were  her  prejudiced  grandmother. 

"  It  is  not  much  ;  but  since  you  told  me  of  the  lady  who 
gave  you  the  bracelet,  Fanny " 

The  monotonous  boy  put  his  head  round  the  beam  on  the 
left,  and  said,  "  Look  out  there,  ladies  !  "  and  disappeared. 
The  sprightly  gentleman  with  the  black  hair  as  suddenly  put 


240  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

his  head  round  the  beam  on  the  right,  and  said,  "  Look  out 
there,  darlings  !  "  and  also  disappeared.  Thereupon  all  the 
young  ladies  rose,  and  began  shaking  their  skirts  out  behind. 

"Well,  Amy  ?  "  said  Fanny,  doing  as  the  rest  did  ;  "what 
were  you  going  to  say  ?  *' 

"  Since  you  tolcf  me  a  lady  had  given  you  the  bracelet  you 
showed  me,  Fanny,  I  have  not  been  quite  easy  on  your  ac- 
count, and  indeed  want  to  know  a  little  more  if  you  will  con- 
fide more  to  me." 

"  Now,  ladies  !  "  said  the  boy  in  the  Scotch  cap.  "  Now 
darlings  !  "  said  the  gentleman  with  the  black  hair.  They 
were  every  one  gone  in  a  moment,  and  the  music  and  the 
dancing  feet  were  heard  again. 

Little  Dorrit  sat  down  in  a  golden  chair,  made  quite  giddy 
by  these  rapid  interruptions.  Her  sister  and  the  rest  were  a 
long  time  gone  ;  and  during  their  absence  a  voice  (it  ap- 
peared to  be  that  of  the  gentleman  with  the  black  hair)  was 
continually  calling  out  through  the  music,  "  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six — go  !  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six — go  ! 
Steady,  darlings  !  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six — go  !  ' 
Ultimately  the  voice  stopped,  and  they  all  came  back  again 
more  or  less  out  of  breath,  folding  themselves  in  their  shawls, 
and  making  ready  for  the  streets.  "  Stop  a  moment.  Amy, 
and  let  them  get  away  before  us,"  whispered  Fanny.  They 
were  soon  left  alone  ;  nothing  more  important  happening,  in 
the  meantime,  than  the  boy  looking  round  his  old  beam  and 
saying,  "  Everybody  at  eleven  to-morrow,  ladies  !  "  and  the 
gentleman  with  the  black  hair  looking  round  his  old  beam, 
and  saying,  "  Every  body  at  eleven  to-morrow,  darlings  !" 
each  in  his  own  accustomed  manner. 

When  they  were  alone,  something  was  rolled  up  or  by 
other  means  got  out  of  the  way,  and  there  was  a  great  empty 
well  before  them,  looking  down  into  the  depths  of  which 
Fanny  said,  "  Now,  uncle  !  "  Little  Dorrit,  as  her  eyes  be- 
came used  to  the  darkness,  faintly  made  him  out,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  well,  in  an  obscure  corner  by  himself,  with  his 
instrument  in  its  ragged  case  under  his  arm. 

The  old  man  looked  as  if  the  remote  high  gallery  windows 
with  their  little  strip  of  sky,  might  have  been  the  point  of  his 
better  fortunes,  from  which  he  had  descended,  until  he  grad- 
ually sunk  down  below  there  to  the  bottom.  He  had  been 
in  that  place  six  nights  a  week  for  many  years,  but  had  never 
been  observed  to  raise  his  eyes  above  his  music-book,  and 
was  confidently  believed  to  have  never  seen  a  play.     There 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  241 

were  legends  in  the  place  that  he  did  not  so  much  as  know 
the  popular  heroes  and  heroines  by  sight,  and  that  the  low 
comedian  had  "  mugged  '*  at  him  in  his  richest  manner 
fifty  nights  for  a  wager,  and  he  had  shown  no  trace  of 
consciousness.  The  carpenters  had  a  joke  to  the  effect 
that  he  was  dead  without  being  aware  of  it  ;  and  the  fre- 
quenters of  the  pit  supposed  him  to  pass  his  whole  life,  night 
and  day  and  Sunday  and  all,  in  the  orchestra.  They  had 
tried  him  a  few  times  with  pinches  of  snuff  offered  over  the 
rails,  and  he  had  always  responded  to  this  attention  with  a 
momentary  waking  up  of  manner  that  had  the  pale  phantom 
of  a  gentleman  in  it  :  beyond  this  he  never,  on  any  occasion, 
had  any  other  part  in  what  was  going  on  than  the  part 
written  out  for  the  clarionet ;  in  private  life,  where  there 
was  no  part  for  the  clarionet,  he  had  no  part  at  all.  Some 
said  he  was  poor,  some  said  he  was  a  wealthy  miser  ;  but  he 
said  nothing,  never  lifted  up  his  bowed  head,  never  varied 
his  shuffling  gait  by  getting  his  springless  foot  from  the 
ground.  Though  expecting  now  to  be  summoned  by  his 
niece,  he  did  not  hear  her  until  she  had  spoken  to  him  three 
or  four  times  ;  nor  was  he  at  all  surprised  by  the  presence 
of  two  nieces  instead  of.  one,  but  merely  said  in  his  tremu- 
lous voice,  "  I  am  coming,  I  am  coming  !  "  and  crept  forth 
by  some  underground  way  which  emitted  a  ceriarous  smell. 

"And  so.  Amy,"  said  her  sister,  when  the  three  together 
passed  out,  at  the  door  that  had  such  a  shame-faced  con- 
sciousness of  being  different  from  other  doors  :  the  uncle 
instinctively  taking  Amy's  arm  as  the  arm  to  be  relied  on  : 
*^  so.  Amy,  you  are  curious  about  me  ?  " 

She  was  pretty,  and  conscious,  and  rather  flaunting  ;  and 
the  condescension  with  which  she  put  aside  the  superiority 
of  her  charms,  and  of  her  worldly  experience,  and  addressed 
her  sister  on  almost  equal  terms,  had  a  vast  deal  of  the 
family  in  it. 

"  I  am  interested,  Fanny,  and  concerned  in  any  thing  that 
concerns  you." 

*^  So  you  are,  so  you  are,  and  you  are  the  best  of  Amys.  If  I 
am  ever  a  little  provoking,  I  am  sure  you'll  consider  what  a 
thing  it  is  to  occupy  my  position  and  feel  a  consciousness  of 
being  superior  to  it.  I  shouldn't  care,"  said  the  daughter  of  the 
father  of  the  Marshalsea,  **  if  the  others  were  not  so  common. 
None  of  them  have  come  down  in  the  world  as  we  have. 
They  are  all  on  their  own  level.     Common." 

Little  Dorrit  mildly  looked  at  the  speaker,  but  did  not 


242  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

interrupt  her.  Fanny  took  out  her  handkerchief,  and  rather 
angrily  wiped  her  eyes.  "  I  was  not  born  where  you  were, 
you  know,  Amy,  and  perhaps  that  makes  a  difference.  My 
dear  child,  when  we  get  rid  of  uncle,  you  shall  know  all 
about  it.  We'll  drop  him  at  the  cook's  shop  where  he  is 
going  to  dine." 

They  walked  on  with  him  until  they  came  to  a  dirty  shop- 
window  in  a  dirty  street,  which  was  made  almost  opaque  by 
the  steam  of  hot  meats,  vegetables,  and  puddings.  But 
glimpses  were  to  be  caught  of  a  roast  leg  of  pork  bursting 
into  tears  of  sage  and  onion  in  a  metal  reservoir  full  of  gravy, 
of  an  unctuous  piece  of  roast  beef  and  blisterous  Yorkshire 
pudding,  bubbling  hot  in  a  similar  receptacle,  of  a  stuffed 
fillet  of  veal  in  rapid  cut,  of  a  ham  in  a  perspiration  with 
the  pace  it  was  going  at,  of  a  shallow  tank  of  baked  potatoes 
glued  together  by  their  own  richness,  of  a  truss  or  two  of 
boiled  greens,  and  other  substantial  delicacies.  Within, 
were  a  few  wooden  partitions,  behind  which  such  customers 
as  found  it  more  convenient  to  take  away  their  dinners  in 
stomachs  than  in  their  hands,  packed  their  purchases  in  soli- 
tude. Fanny  opening  her  reticule,  as  they  surveyed  these 
things,  produced  from  that  repository  a  shilling  and  handed 
it  to  uncle.  Uncle,  after  not  looking  at  it  a  little  while, 
divined  its  object,  and  muttering  "  Dinner  ?  Ha  !  Yes, 
yes,  yes  !  "  slowly  vanished  from  them  into  the  mist. 

"Now,  Amy,"  said  her  sister,  "come  with  me,  if  you  are 
not  too  tired  to  walk  to  Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square." 

The  air  with  which  she  threw  off  this  distinguished  address, 
and  the  toss  she  gave  her  new  bonnet  (which  was  more  gaudy 
than  serviceable),  made  her  sister  wonder  ;  however,  she 
expressed  her  readiness  to  go  to  Harley  Street,  and  thither 
they  directed  their  steps.  Arrived  at  that  grand  destination, 
Fanny  singled  out  the  handsomest  house,  and  knocking  at 
the  door,  inquired  for  Mrs.  Merdle.  The  footman  who 
opened  the  door,  although  he  had  powder  on  his  head  and 
was  backed  up  by  two  other  footmen  likewise  powdered,  not 
only  admitting  Mrs.  Merdle  to  be  at  home,  but  asked  Fanny 
to  walk  in.  Fanny  walked  in,  taking  her  sister  with  her;  and 
they  went  up  stairs  with  powder  going  before  and  powder 
stopping  behind,  and  were  left  in  a  spacious  semicircular 
drawing-room,  one  of  several  drawing-rooms,  where  there 
was  a  parrot  on  the  outside  of  a  golden  cage  holding  on  by 
its  beak  with  its  scaly  legs  in  the  air,  and  putting  itself  into 
many  strange  upside-down  postures.     This   peculiarity  has 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  243 

been  observed  in  birds  of  quite  another  feather,  climbing 
upon  golden  wires. 

The  room  was  far  more  splendid  than  any  thing  Little 
Dorrit  and  ever  imagined,  and  would  have  been  splendid 
and  costly  in  any  eyes.  She  looked  in  amazement  at  her 
sister  had  would  have  asked  a  question,  but  that  Fanny  with 
a  warning  frown  pointed  to  a  curtained  door- way  of  commu- 
nication with  another  room.  The  curtain  shook  next  mo- 
ment, and  a  lady,  raising  it  with  a  heavily  ringed  hand, 
dropped  it  behind  her  again  as  she  entered. 

The  lady  was  not  young  and  fresh  from  the  hand  of 
Nature,  but  was  young  and  fresh  from  the  hand  of  her  maid. 
She  had  large  unfeeling  handsome  eyes,  and  dark  unfeeling 
handsome  hair,  and  a  broad  unfeeling  handsome  bosom,  and 
was  made  the  most  of  in  every  particular.  Either  because 
she  had  a  cold,  or  because  it  suited  her  face,  she  wore  a  rich 
white  fillet  tied  over  her  head  and  under  her  chin.  And  if 
ever  there  were  an  unfeeling  handsome  chin  that  looked  as 
if,  for  certain,  it  had  never  been,  in  familiar  parlance, 
"  chucked  "  by  the  hand  of  man,  it  was  the  chin  curbed  up 
so  tight  and  close  by  that  laced  bridle. 

"  Mrs.  Merdle,"  said  Fanny.     "  My  sister,  ma*am." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  your  sister,  Miss  Dorrit.  I. did  not  re- 
member that  you  had  a  sister." 

"  I  did  not  mention  that  I  had,"  said  Fanny. 

"Ay  !  "  .  Mrs.  Merdle  curled  the  little  finger  of  her  left 
hand  as  who  should  say,  "  I  have  caught  you.  I  know  you 
didn't !  '*  All  her  action  was  usually  with  her  left  hand  be- 
cause her  hands  were  not  a  pair  ;  the  left  being  much  the 
whiter  and  plumper  of  the  two.  Then  she  added  ;  "  Sit 
down,"  and  composed  herself  voluptuously,  in  a  nest  of 
crimson  and  gold  cushions,  on  an  ottoman  near  the  parrot. 

"  Also  professional  ? "  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  looking  at  Little 
Dorrit  through  an  eye-glass. 

Fanny  answered  No.  "  No,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  dropping 
her  glass.  *'  Has  not  a  professional  air.  Very  pleasant ; 
but  not  professional." 

"  My  sister,  ma'am,"  said  Fanny,  in  whom  there  was  a 
singular  mixture  of  deference  and  hardihood,  "  has  been 
asking  me  to  tell  her,  as  between  sisters,  how  I  came  to  have 
the  honor  of  knowing  you.  And  as  I  had  engaged  to  call  upon 
you  once  more,  I  thought  I  might  take  the  liberty  of  bring- 
ing her  with  me,  when  perhaps  you  would  tell  her.  I  wish 
her  to  know,  and  perhaps  you  will  tell  her." 


244  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Do  you  think,  at  your  sister's   age "   hinted    Mrs. 

Merdle. 

"  She  is  much  older  than  she  looks,"  said  Fanny  ;  *'  almost 
as  old  as  I  am." 

"  Society,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  with  another  curve  of  her 
little  finger,  "  is  so  difficult  to  explain  to  young  persons 
(indeed  is  so  difficult  to  explain  to  most  persons),  that  I 
am  glad  to  hear  that.  I  wish  society  was  not  so  arbi- 
trary, I  wish  it  was  not  so  exacting — Bird,  be  quiet  !  " 

The  parrot  had  given  a  most  piercing  shriek,  as  if  its 
name  were  society  and  it  asserted  its  right  to  its  exactions. 

**  But,"  resumed  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  we  must  take  it  as  we 
find  it.  We  know  it  is  hollow  and  conventional  and 
worldly  and  very  shocking,  but  unless  we  are  savages  in 
the  tropical  seas  (I  should  have  been  charmed  to  be  one 
myself — most  delightful  life  and  perfect  climate  I  am  told), 
we  must  consult  it.  It  is  the  common  lot.  Mr.  Merdle 
is  a  most  extensive  merchant,  his  transactions  are  on  the 
vastest  scale,  his  wealth  and  influence  are  very  great,  but 
even  he — Bird,  be  quiet  !  " 

The  parrot  had  shrieked  another  shriek  ;  and  it  filled  up 
the  sentence  so  expressively  that  Mrs.  Merdle  was  under  no 
necessity  to  end  it. 

"  Since  your  sister  begs  that  I  would  terminate  our  perso^ 
nal  acquaintance,"  she  began  again,  addressing  Little  Dorrit, 
^'  by  relating  the  circumstances  that  are  much  to  her  credit, 
I  can  not  object  to  comply  with  her  request,  I  am  sure.  I 
have  a  son  (I  was  first  married  extremely  young)  of  two  or 
three-and-twenty." 

Fanny  set  her  lips,  and  her  eyes  looked  half  triumphantly 
at  her  sister. 

"  A  son  of  two  or  three-and-twenty.  He  is  a  little  gay, 
a  thing  society  is  accustomed  to  in  young  men,  and  he 
is  very  impressible.  Perhaps  he  inherits  that  misfortune. 
I  am  very  impressible  myself,  by  nature.  The  weakest 
of  creatures.     My  feelings  are  touched  in  a  moment." 

She  said  all  this,  and  every  thing  else,  as  coldly  as  a  woman 
of  snow  ;  quite  forgetting  the  sisters  except  at  old  times, 
and  apparently  addressing  some  abstraction  of  society.  For 
whose  behoof,  too,  she  occasionally  arranged  her  dress,  or 
the  composition  of  her  figure  upon  the  ottoman. 

^*  So  he  is  very  impressible.  Not  a  misfortune  in  our 
natural .  state,  I  dare  say,  but  we  are  not  in  a  natural  state. 
Much  to  be  lamented,  no  doubt,  particularly  by  myself,  who 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  245 

am  a  child  of  nature  if  I  could  but  show  it ;  but  so  it  is. 
Society  suppresses  us  and  dominates  us — Bird,  be  quiet !  " 

The  parrot  had  broken  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter,  after 
twisting  divers  bars  of  his  cage  with  his  crooked  bill,  and 
licking  them  with  his  black  tongue. 

^'  It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  say  to  a  person  of  your  good 
sense,  wide  range  of  experience,  and  cultivated  feelings," 
said  Mrs.  Merdle,  from  her  nest  of  crimson  and  gold — and 
there  put  up  her  glass  to  refresh  her  memory  as  to  whom 
she  was  addressing, — *^  that  the  stage  sometimes  has  a  fas- 
cination for  young  men  of  that  class  of  character.  In  say- 
ing the  stage,  I  mean  the  people  on  it  of  the  female  sex. 
Therefore,  when  I  heard  that  my  son  was  supposed  to  be 
fascinated  by  a  dancer,  I  knew  what  that  usually  meant  in 
society,  and  confided  in  her  being  a  dancer  at  the  opera, 
where  young  men  moving  in  society  are  usually  fascinated." 

She  passed  her  white  hands  over  one  another,  observant 
of  the  sisters  now  ;  and  the  rings  upon  her  fingers  grated 
against  each  other,  with  a  hard  sound. 

^'  As  your  sister  will  tell  you,  when  I  found  what  the  theater 
was,  I  was  much  surprised  and  much  distressed.  But  when 
I  found  that  your  sister,  by  rejecting  my  son's  advances  (I 
must  add,  in  an  unexpected  manner),  had  brought  him  to 
the  point  of  proposing  marriage,  my  feelings  were  of  the 
profoundest  anguish — acute." 

She  traced  the  outline  of  her  left  eyebrow,  and  put  it 
right. 

**  In  a  distracted  condition  which  only  a  mother — moving 
in  society — can  be  susceptible  of,  I  determined  to  go  myself 
to  the  theater,  and  represent  my  state  of  mind  to  the  dancer. 
I  made  myself  known  to  your  sister.  I  found  her,  to  my 
surprise,  in  many  respects  different  from  my  expectations  ; 
and  certainly  in  none  more  so,  than  in  meeting  me  with — what 
shall  I  say  ? — a  sort  of  family  assertion  on  her  own  part  ?  " 
Mrs.  Merdle  smiled. 

**  I  told  you,  ma'am,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  heightening 
color,  *'  that  although  you  found  me  in  that  situation,  I  was 
so  far  above  the  rest,  that  I  considered  my  family  as  good 
as  your  son's  ;  and  that  I  had  a  brother  who,  knowing  the 
circumstances,  would  be  of  the  same  opinion,  and  would 
not  consider  such  a  connection  any  honor.'* 

"  Miss  Dorrit,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  after  frostily  looking  at 
her  through  her  glass,  "  precisely  what  I  was  on  the  point  of 
telling  your  sister,  in  pursuance  of  your    request.     Much 


246  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

obliged  to  you  for  recalling  it  so  accurately  and  anticipating 
me.  I  immediately,"  addressing  Little  Dorrit,  "  (for  I  am 
the  creature  of  impulse),  took  a  bracelet  from  my  arm,  and 
begged  your  sister  to  let  me  clasp  it  on  hers,  in  token  of  the 
delight  I  had  in  our  being  able  to  approach  the  subject  so 
far  on  a  common  footing."  (This  was  perfectly  true,  the 
lady  having  bought  a  cheap  and  showy  article  on  her  way 
to  the  interview,  with  a  general  eye  to  bribery.) 

"And  I  told  you,  Mrs.  Merdle,"  said  Fanny,  "that  we 
might  be  unfortunate,  but  were  not  common." 

"  I  think,  the  very  words,  Miss  Dorrit,"  assented  Mrs. 
Merdle. 

"  And  I  told  you,  Mrs.  Merdle,"  said  Fanny,  "  that  if  you 
spoke  to  me  of  the  superiority  of  your  son's  standing  in 
society,  it  was  barely  possible  that  you  rather  deceived  your- 
self in  your  suppositions  about  my  origin  ;  and  that  my 
father's  standing,  even  in  the  society  in  which  he  now  moved 
(what  that  was,  was  best  known  to  myself),  was  eminently 
superior,  and  was  acknowledged  by  every  one." 

"  Quite  accurate,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Merdle.  "  A  most 
admirable  memory." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am.  Perhaps  you  will  be  so  kind  as  to 
tell  my  sister  the  rest." 

"  There  is  very  little  to  tell,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  reviewing 
the  breadth  of  bosom  which  seemed  essential  to  her  having 
room  enough  to  be  unfeeling  in,  "  but  it  is  to  your  sister's 
credit.  I  pointed  out  to  your  sister  the  plain  state  of  the 
case  ;  the  impossibility  of  the  society  in  which  we  moved  rec- 
ognizing the  society  in  which  she  moved — though  charming, 
I  have  no  doubt  ;  the  immense  disadvantage  at  which  she 
would  consequently  place  the  family  she  had  so  high  an  opin- 
ion of,  upon  which  we  should  find  ourselves  compelled  to  look 
down  with  contempt,  and  from  which  (socially  speaking)  we 
should  feel  obliged  to  recoil  with  abhorrence.  In  short,  I 
made  an  appeal  to  that  laudable  pride  in  your  sister." - 

"  Let  my  sister  know,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Merdle,"  Fanny 
pouted  and  tossed  her  gauzy  bonnet,  "  that  I  had  already 
had  the  honor  of  telling  your  son  that  I  wished  to  have  noth- 
ing more  to  say  to  him." 

"  Well,  Miss  Dorrit,"  assented  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  perhaps  I 
might  have  mentioned  that  before.  If  I  did  not  think  of  it, 
perhaps  it  was  because  my  mind  reverted  to  the  apprehen- 
sions I  had  at  the  time,  that  he  might  persevere  and  you 
might  have  something  to  say  to  him.     I  also  mentioned  to 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  247 

your  sister — I  again  address  the  non-professional  Miss 
Dorrit — that  my^  son  would  have  nothing  in  the  event  of 
such  a  marriage,  and  would  be  an  absolute  beggar.  (I  men- 
tion that,  merely  as  a  fact  which  is  a  part  of  the  narrative, 
and  not  as  supposing  it  to  have  influenced  your  sister,  except 
in  the  prudent  and  legitimate  way  in  which,  constituted  as 
our  artificial  system  is,  we  must  all  be  influenced  by  such 
considerations.)  Finally,  after  some  high  words  and  high 
spirit  on  the  part  of  your  sister,  we  came  to  the  complete 
understanding  that  there  was  no  danger;  and  your  sister  was 
so  obliging  as  to  allow  me  to  present  her  with  a  mark  or  two 
of  my  appreciation  at  my  dress-maker's." 

Little  Dorrit  looked  sorry,  and  glanced  at  Fanny  with  a 
troubled  face. 

"Also,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  "as  to  promise  to  give  me  the 
present  pleasure  of  a  closing  interview,  and  parting  with 
her  on  the  best  of  terms.  On  which  occasion,"  added  Mrs. 
Merdle,  quitting  her  nest,  and  putting  something  in  Fanny's 
hand,  "  Miss  Dorrit  will  permit  me  to  say  farewell  with  best 
wishes,  in  my  own  dull  manner." 

The  sisters  rose  at  the  same  time,  and  they  all  stood  near 
the  cage  of  the  parrot,  as  he  tore  at  a  claw-full  of  biscuit  and 
spat  it  out,  seemed  to  mock  them  with  a  pompous  dance  of 
his  body  without  moving  his  feet,  and  suddenly  turned  him- 
self upside  down  and  trailed  himself  all  over  the  outside  of 
his  golden  cage,  with  the  aid  of  his  cruel  beak  ^d  his  black 
tongue. 

"Adieu,  Miss  Dorrit,  with  best  wishes,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 
"  If  we  could  only  come  to  a  millennium,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  I  for  one  might  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  a 
number  of  charming  and  talented  persons  from  whom  I  am 
at  present  excluded.  A  more  primitive  state  of  society  would 
be  delicious  tome.  There  used  to  be  a  poem  when  I  learned 
lessons,  something  about  Lo  the  poor  Indian  whose  some- 
thing mind  !  If  a  few  thousand  persons  moving  in  society, 
could  only  go  and  be  Indians,  I  would  put  my  name  down 
directly;  but  as,  moving  in  society,  we  can't  be  Indians,  un- 
fortunately— Good-morning  !  " 

They  came  down  stairs  with  powder  before  them  and  pow- 
der behind,  the  elder  sister  haughty  and  the  younger  sister 
humbled,  and  were  shut  out  into  unpowdered  Harley  Street, 
Cavendish  Square. 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  when  they  had  gone  a  little  way 
without  speaking.     "  Have  you  nothing  to  say,  Amy  ?  " 


248  LITTLE  DORRLr. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  what  to  say!"  she  answered,  distressed. 
**  You  didn't  like  this  young  man,  Fanny  ?  " 

**  Like  him  ?     He  is  almost  an  idiot." 

^'  I  am  so  sorry — don't  be  hurt — but,  since  you  ask  me  what 
I  have  to  say,  I  am  so  very  sorry,  Fanny,  that  you  suffered 
this  lady  to  give  you  any  thing." 

^'  You  little  fool !  "  returned  her  sister,  shaking  her  with 
the  sharp  pull  she  gave  her  arm.  *'  Have  you  no  spirit  at  all? 
But  that's  just  the  way!  You  have  no  self-respect,  you  have 
no  becoming  pride.  Just  as  you  allow  yourself  to  be  followed 
about  by  a  contemptible  little  Chivery  of  a  thing,"  with  the 
scornfulest  emphasis,  "  you  would  let  your  family  be  trodden 
on,  and  never  turn." 

*'  Don't  say  that,  dear  Fanny.  I  do  what  I  can  for 
them." 

"  You  do  what  you  can  for  them  1  "  repeated  Fanny,  walk- 
ing her  on  very  fast.  "  Would  you  let  a  woman  like  this, 
whom  you  could  see,  if  you  had  any  experience  of  any  thing, 
to  be  as  false  and  insolent  as  a  woman  can  be — would 
you  let  her  put  her  foot  upon  your  family,  and  thank  her 
for  it  ?  " 

"  No,  Fanny,  I  am  sure." 

*'  Then  make  her  pay  for  it,  you  mean  little  thing. 
What  else  can  you  make  her  do  ?  Make  her  pay  for  it, 
you  stupid  child;  and  do  your  family  some  credit  with  the 
money  !  " 

They  spoke  no  more  all  the  way  back  to  the  lodging 
where  Fanny  and  her  uncle  lived.  When  they  arrived  there, 
they  found  the  old  man  practicing  his  clarionet  in  the  dole- 
fulest  manner  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  Fanny  had  a  com- 
posite meal  to  make,  of  chops,  and  porter,  and  tea;  and  in- 
dignantly pretended  to  prepare  it  for  herself,  though  her 
sister  did  all  that  in  quiet  reality.  When,  at  last,  Fanny  sat 
down  to  eat  and  drink,  she  threw  the  table  implements 
about  and  was  angry  with  her  bread;  much  as  her  fa;ther  had 
been  last  night. 

^^  If  you  despise  me,"  she  said,  bursting  into  vehement 
tears,  ^'  because  I  am  a  dancer,  why  did  you  put  me  in  the 
way  of  being  one  I  It  was  your  doing.  You  would  have  me 
stoop  as  low  as  the  ground  before  this  Mrs.  Merdle,  and  let 
her  say  what  she  liked  and  do  what  she  liked,  and  hold  us 
all  in  contempt,  and  tell  me  so  to  my  face.  Because  I  am  a 
dancer !  " 

*'0h   Fanny  r 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  249 

"  And  Tip,  too,  poor  fellow.  She  is  to  disparage  him  just 
as  much  as  she  likes,  without  any  check — I  suppose  because 
he  has  been  in  the  law,  and  the  docks,  and  different  things. 
Why,  it  was  your  doing.  Amy.  You  might  at  least  approve 
of  his  being  defended." 

All  this  time  the  uncle  was  dolefully  blowing' his  clarionet 
in  the  corner,  sometimes  taking  it  an  inch  or  so  from  his 
mouth  for  a  moment,  while  he  stopped  to  gaze  at  them,  with 
a  vague  impression  that  somebody  had  said  something. 

**  And  your  father,  your  poor  father,  Amy.  Because  he  is 
not  free,  to  show  himself  and  to  speak  for  himself,  you  would 
let  such  people  insult  him  with  impunity.  If  you  don't  feel 
for  yourself  because  you  go  out  to  work,  you  might  at  least 
feel  for  him,  I  should  think,  knowing  what  he  has  undergone 
so  long." 

Poor  Little  Dorrit  felt  the  injustice  of  this  taunt  rather 
sharply.  The  remembrance  of  last  night  added  a  barbed 
point  to  it.  She  said  nothing  in  reply,  but  turned  her  chair 
from  the  table  toward  the  fire.  Uncle,  after  making  one 
more  pause,  blew  a  dismal  wail  and  went  on  again. 

Fanny  was  passionate  with  the  tea-cups  and  the  bread  as 
long  as  her  passion  lasted,  and  then  protested  that  she  was  the 
wretchedest  girl  in  the  world,  and  she  wished  she  was  dead. 
After  that,  her  crying  became  remorseful,  and  she  got  up  and 
put  her  arms  round  her  sister.  Little  Dorrit  tried  to  stop  her 
from  saying  any  thing,  but  she  answered  that  she  would,  she 
must  !  Thereupon  she  said  again  and  again,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon.  Amy,"  and  ^*  Forgive  me.  Amy,"  almost  as  passion- 
ately as  she  had  said  what  she  regretted. 

"But  indeed,  indeed.  Amy,"  she  resumed,  when  they  were 
seated  in  sisterly  accord  side  by  side,  *'  I  hope  and  I  think 
you  would  have  seen  this  differently,  if  you  had  known  a 
little  more  of  society." 

**  Perhaps  I  might,  Fanny,"  said  the  mild  Little  Dor- 
rit. 

"  You  see,  while  you  have  been  domestic  and  resignedly 
shut  up  there.  Amy,"  pursued  her  sister,  gradually  beginning 
to  patronize,  *^  I  have  been  out  moving  more  in  society,  and 
may  have  been  getting  proud  and  spirited — more  than  I 
ought  to  be,  perhaps  ?  " 

Little  Dorrit  answered,  "  Yes.     Oh,  yes  !  " 

"  And  while  you  have  been  thinking  of  the  dinner  or  the 
clothes,  I  may  have  been  thinking,  you  know,  of  the  family. 
Now,  may  it  not  be  so,  Amy  ?  " 


250  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Little  Dorrit  again  nodded  "  Yes,"  with  a  more  cheerful 
face  than  heart. 

"  Especially  as  we  know,"  said  Fanny,  ^*  that  there  cer- 
tainly is  a  tone  in  the  place  to  which  you  have  been  so  true, 
which  does  belong  to  it,  and  which  does  make  it  different 
from  other  aspects  of  society.  So  kiss  me  once  again,  Amy 
dear,  and  we  will  agree  that  we  may  both  be  right,  and  that 
you  are  a  tranquil,  domestic,  home-loving,  good  girl." 

The  clarionet  had  been  lamenting  most  pathetically  during 
this  dialogue,  but  was  cut  short  now  by  Fanny's  announce- 
ment that  it  was  time  to  go;  which  she  conveyed  to  her 
uncle  by  shutting  up  his  scrap  of  music,  and  taking  the 
clarionet  out  of  his  mouth. 

Little  Dorrit  parted  from  them  at  the  door,  and  hastened 
back  to  Marshalsea.  It  fell  dark  there  sooner  than  else- 
where, and  going  into  it  that  evening  was  like  going  into  a 
deep  trench.  The  shadow  of  the  wall  was  on  every  object. 
Not  least,  upon  the  figure  in  the  old  gray  gown  and  the  black 
velvet  cap,  as  it  turned  toward  her  when  she  opened  the 
door  of  the  dim  room. 

*'  Why  not  upon  me  too  !  "  thought  Little  Dorrit,  with  the 
door  yet  in  her  hand.     "  It  was  not  unreasonable  in  Fanny." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

MRS.    MERDLe's   complaint. 

Upon  that  establishment  of  state,  the  Merdle  establish- 
ment in  Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  there  was  the 
shadow  of  no  more  common  wall  than  the  fronts  of  other 
establishments  of  state  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  Like 
unexceptional  society,  the  opposing  row  of  houses  in  Harley 
Street  were  very  grim  with  one  another.  Indeed,  the  man- 
sions and  their  inhabitants  were  so  much  alike  in  that  respect, 
that  the  people  were  often  to  be  found  drawn  up  on  opposite 
sides  of  dinner-tables,  in  the  shade  of  their  own  loftiness, 
staring  at  the  other  side  of  the  way  with  the  dullness  of  the 
houses. 

Every  body  knows  how  like  the  street,  the  two  dinner-rows 
of  people  who  take  their  stand  by  the  street  will  be.  The 
expressionless  uniform  twenty  houses,  all  to  be  knocked  at 
and  rung  at  in  the  same  form,  all  approachable  by  the  same 
dull  steps,  all  fended  off  by  the  same  pattern  of  railing,  all 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  251 

with  the  same  impracticable  fire-escapes,  the  same  inconve- 
nient fixtures  in  their  heads,  and  every  thing  without  excep- 
tion to  be  taken  at  a  high  valuation — who  has  not  dined  with 
these  ?  The  house  so  drearily  out  of  repair,  the  occasional 
bow-window,  the  stuccoed  house,  the  newly-fronted  house, 
the  corner  house  with  nothing  but  angular  rooms,  the  house 
with  the  blinds  always  down,  the  house  with  the  hatchment 
always  up,  the  house  where  the  collector  has  called  for  one 
quarter  of  an  idea,  and  found  nobody  at  home — who  has  not 
dined  with  these  ?  The  house  that  nobody  will  take,  and  is 
to  be  had  a  bargain — who  does  not  know  her  ?  The  showy 
house  that  was  taken  for  life  by  the  disappointed  gentleman; 
and  which  doesn't  suit  him  at  all — who  is  unacquainted 
with  that  haunted  habitation  ? 

Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square,  was  more  than  aware  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merdle.  Intruders  there  were  in  Harley 
Street,  of  whom  it  was  not  aware;  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Merdle 
it  delighted  to  honor.  Society  was  aware  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Merdle.  Society  had  said  "  Let  us  license  them  ;  let  us 
know  them." 

Mr.  Merdle  was  immensely  rich;  a  man  of  prodigious 
enterprise;  a  Midas  without  the  ears,  who  turned  all  he 
touched  to  gold.  He  was  in  every  thing  good,  from  banking 
to  building.  He  was  in  parliament  of  course.  He  was  in 
the  city,  necessarily.  He  was  chairman  of  this,  trustee  of 
that,  president  of  the  other.  The  weightiest  of  men  had  said 
to  projectors,  '*  Now,  what  name  have  you  got  ?  Have  you 
got  Merdle  ? "  And,  the  reply  being  in  the  negative,  had 
said,  ^*  Then  I  won't  look  at  you." 

This  great  and  fortunate  man  had  provided  that  extensive 
bosom,  which  required  so  much  room  to  be  unfeeling  enough 
in,  with  a  nest  of  crimson  and  gold  some  fifteen  years  before. 
It  was  not  a  bosom  to  repose  upon,  but  it  was  a  capital  bosom 
to  hang  jewels  upon.  Mr.  Merdle  wanted  something  to  hang 
jewels  upon,  and  he  bought  it  for  the  purpose,  Storr  and 
Mortimer  might  have  married  on  the  same  speculation. 

Like  all  his  other  speculations,  it  was  sound  and  success- 
ful. The  jewels  showed  to  the  richest  advantage.  The 
bosom  moving  in  society  with  the  jewels  displayed  upon  it, 
attracted  general  admiration.  Society  approving,  Mr.  Mer- 
dle was  satisfied.  He  was  the  most  disinterested  of  men — 
did  every  thing  for  society,  and  got  as  little  for  himself  out  of 
all  his  gain  and  care,  as  a  man  might. 

That   is  to  say,  it  may   be   supposed  that  he  got  all  he 


252  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

wanted,  otherwise  with  unlimited  wealth  he  would  have  got 
it.  But  his  desire  was  to  the  utmost  to  satisfy  society  (what- 
ever that  was),  and  take  up  all  its  drafts  upon  him  for  tribute. 
He  did  not  shine  in  company;  he  had  not  very  much  to  say 
for  himself;  he  was  a  reserved  man,  with  a  broad,  overhang- 
ing, watchful  head,  that  particular  kind  of  dull  red  color  in 
his  cheeks  which  is  rather  stale  than  fresh,  and  a  somewhat 
uneasy  expression  about  his  coat-cuffs,  as  if  they  were  in  his 
confidence,  and  had  reasons  for  being  anxious  to  hide  his 
hands.  |  In  the  little  he  said,  he  was  a  pleasa-nt  man  enough; 
plain,  emphatic  about  public  and  private  confidence,  and 
tenacious  of  the  utmost  deference  being  shown  by  every  one, 
in  all  things,  to  society.  In  this  same  society  (if  that  were 
it  which  came  to  his  dinners,  and  to  Mrs.  Merdle's  recep- 
tions and  concerts),  he  hardly  seemed  to  enjoy  himself  much, 
and  was  mostly  to  be  found  against  walls  and  behind  doors.  ^ 
Also  when  he  went  out  to  it,  instead  of  its  coming  home  to 
him,  he  seemed  a  little  fatigued,  and  upon  the  whole  rather 
more  disposed  for  bed;  but  he  was  always  cultivating  it 
nevertheless,  and  always  moving  in  it,  and  always  laying  out 
money  on  it  with  the  greatest  liberality. 

Mrs.  Merdle's  first  husband  had  been  a  colonel,  under 
whose  auspices  the  bosom  had  entered  into  competition  with 
the  snows  of  North  America,  and  had  come  off  at  little  dis- 
advantage in  point  of  whiteness,  and  at  none  in  point  of  cold- 
ness. The  colonel's  son  was  Mrs.  Merdle's  only  child.  He 
was  of  a  chuckle-headed  high  shouldered  make,  with  a  general 
appearance  of  being,  not  so  much  a  young  man  as  a  swelled 
boy.  He  had  given  so  few  signs  of  reason,  that  a  by-word 
went  among  his  companions  that  his  brain  had  been  frozen  up 
in  a  mighty  frost  which  prevailed  at  St.  John's,  New  Bruns- 
wick, at  the  period  of  his  birth  there,  and  had  never  thawed 
from  that  hour.  Another  by-word  represented  him  as  hav- 
ing in  his  infancy,  through  the  negligence  of  a  nurse,  fallen 
out  of  a  high  window  on  his  head,  which  had  been  heard  by 
responsible  witnesses  to  crack.  It  is  probable  that  both  these 
representations  were  of  ex  post  facto  origin;  the  young 
gentleman  (whose  expressive  name  was  Sparkler)  being  mon- 
omaniacal  in  offering  marriage  to  all  manner  of  undesirable 
young  ladies,  and  in  remarking  of  every  successive  young 
lady  to  whom  he  tendered  a  matrimonial  proposal  that  she 
was  "  a  doosed  fine  gal — well  educated  too — with  no  big- 
godd  nonsense  about  her." 

A  son-in-law,  with  these  limited  talents,  might  have  been  a 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  253 

clog  upon  another  man  ;  but  Mr.  Merdle  did  not  want  a  son- 
in-law  for  himself  ;  he  wanted  a  son-in-law  for  society.  Mr. 
Sparkler  having  been  in  the  guards,  and  being  in  the  habit 
of  frequenting  all  the  races,  and  all  the  lounges,  and  all  the 
parties,  and  being  well  known,  society  was  satisfied  with  its 
son-in-law.  This  happy  result  Mr.  Merdle  would  have  con- 
sidered well  attained,  though  Mr.  Sparkler  had  been  a  more 
expensive  article.  And  he  did  not  get  Mr.  Sparkler  by  any 
means  cheap  for  society,  even  as  it  was. 

There  was  a  dinner  giving  in  the  Harley  Street  establish- 
ment, while  Little  Dorrit  was  stitching  at  her  father's  new 
shirts  by  his  side  that  night ;  and  there  were  magnates  from 
the  court  and  magnates  from  the  city,  magnates  from  the 
commons  and  magnates  from  the  lords,  magnates  from  the/ 
bench  and  magnates  from  the  bar,  bishop  magnates,  treas-/' 
ury  magnates,  horse  guards  magnates,  admiralty  magnates^ 
— all  the  magnates  that  keep  us  going,  and  sometimes  trip 
us  up. 

"  I  am  told,"  said  Bishop  magnate  to  Horse  Guards,  "  that 
Mr.  Merdle  has  made  another  enormous  hit.  They  say  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds." 

Horse  guards  had  heard  two. 

Treasury  had  heard  three. 

Bar,  handling  his  persuasive  double  eye-glass,  was  by  no 
means  clear  but  that  it  might  be  four.  It  was  one  of  those 
happy  strokes  of  calculation  and  combination,  the  result  of 
which  it  was  difficult  to  estimate.  It  was  one  of  those  in- 
stances of  a  comprehensive  grasp,  associated  with  habitual 
luck  and  characteristic  boldness,  of  which  an  age  presented 
us  but  few.  But  there  was  Brother  Bellows,  who  had  been 
in  the  great  bank  case,  and  who  could  probably  tell  us  more. 
What  did  Brother  Bellows  put  this  new  success  at  ? 

Brother  Bellows  was  on  his  way  to  make  his  bow  to  the 
bosom,  and  could  only  tell  them  in  passing  that  he  had  heard 
it  stated  with  great  appearance  of  truth,  as  being  worth, 
from  first  to  last,  half-a-million  of  money. 

Admiralty  said  Mr.  Merdle  was  a  wonderful  man.  Treas- 
ury said  he  was  a  new  power  in  the  country,  and  would  be 
able  to  buy  up  the  whole  house  of  commons.  Bishop  said 
he  was  glad  to  think  that  this  wealth  flowed  into  the  coffers 
of  a  gentleman  who  was  always  disposed  to  maintain  the 
best  interests  of  society. 

Mr.  Merdle  himself  was  usually  late  on  these  occasions,  as 
a  man  still  detained  in  the  clutch  of  giant  enterprises  when 


^54  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

other  men  had  shaken  off  their  dwarfs  for  the  day.  On  this 
occasion  he  was  the  last  arrival.  Treasury  said  Merdle's 
work  punished  him  a  little.  Bishop  said  he  was  glad  to  think 
that  this  wealth  flowed  into  the  coffers  of  a  gentleman  who 
accepted  it  with  meekness. 

Powder  !  There  was  so  much  powder  in  waiting,  that  it 
flavored  the  dinner.  Pulverous  particles  got  into  the  dishes, 
and  society's  meats  had  a  season  of  first-rate  footmen. 
Mr.  Merdle  took  down  a  countess  who  was  secluded  some- 
where in  the  core  of  an  immense  dress,  to  which  she  was  in 
the  proportion  of  the  heart  to  the  overgrown  cabbage.  If  so 
low  a  simile  may  be  admitted,  the  dress  went  down  the  stair- 
case like  a  richly  brocaded  Jack  in  the  Green,  and  nobody 
knew  what  sort  of  small  person  carried  it. 

Society  had  every  thing  it  could  want,  and  could  not  want, 
for  dinner.  It  had  every  thing  to  look  at,  and  every  thing 
to  eat,  and  every  think  to  drink.  It  is  to  be  hoped  it  enjoyed 
itself  ;  for  Mr.  Merdle's  own  share  of  the  repast  might  have 
been  paid  for  with  eighteenpence.  Mrs.  Merdle  was  magnifi- 
cent. The  chief  butler  was  the  next  magnificent  institution 
of  the  day.  He  was  the  stateliest  man  in  company.  He  did 
nothing,  but  he  looked  on  as  few  other  men  could  have  done. 
He  was  Mr.  Merdle's  last  gift  to  society.  Mr.  Merdle  didn't 
want  him,  and  was  put  out  of  countenance  when  the  great 
creature  looked  at  him;  but  inappeasable  society  would  have 
him — and  had  got  him. 

The  invisible  countess  carried  out  the  green  at  the  usual 
stage  of  the  entertainment,  and  the  file  of  beauty  was  closed 
up  by  the  bosom.  Treasury  said,  Juno.  •  Bishop  said, 
Judith. 

Bar  fell  into  discussion  with  Horse  Guards  concerning 
courts-martial.  Brother  Bellows  and  Bench  struck  in.  Other 
magnates  paired  off.  Mr.  Merdle  sat  silent,  and  looked  at 
the  table-cloth.  Sometimes  a  magnate  addressed  him,  to 
turn  the  stream  of  his  own  particular  discussion  toward  him; 
but  Mr.  Merdle  seldom  gave  much  attention  to  it,  or  did 
more  than  rouse  himself  from  his  calculations  and  pass  the 
wine. 

When  they  rose,  so  many  of  the  magnates  had  something 
to  say  to  Mr.  Merdle  individually,  that  he  held  little  levees 
by  the  sideboard,  and  checked  them  off  as  they  went  out  at 
the  door. 

Treasury  hoped  he  might  venture  to  congiatulateLOiie  of 
England's  world-famed  capitalists  and  merchant-princes  (he 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  ^sS 

had  turned  that  original  sentiment  in  the  house  a  few  times, 
and  it  came  easy  to  him)  on  a  new  achievement.  To  extend 
the  triumphs  of  such  men,  was  to  extend  the  triumphs  and 
resources  of  the  nation  ;  and  Treasury  felt — he  gave  Mr. 
Merdle  to  understand — patriotic  on  the  subject. 

"  Thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  Mr.  Merdle  ;  **  thank  you.  I 
accept  your  congratulations  with  pride,  and  I  am  glad  you 
approve." 

'^  Why,  I  don't  unreservedly  approve,  my  dear  Mr.  Merdle. 
Because,"  smiling  Treasury  turned  him  by  the  arm  toward 
the  sideboard  and  spoke  banteringly,  "  it  never  can  be  worth 
your  while  to  come  among  us  and  help  us." 

Mr.  Merdle  felt  honored  by  the 

"  No,  no,"  said  Treasury,  **  that  is  not  the  light  in  which 
one  so  distinguished  for  practical  knowledge,  and  great  fore- 
sight, can  be  expected  to  regard  it.  If  we  should  ever  be 
happily  enabled,  by  accidentally  possessing  the  control  over 
circumstances,  to  propose  to  one  so  eminent  to — to  come 
among  us,  and  give  us  the  weight  of  his  influence,  knowledge, 
and  character,  we  could  only  propose  it  to  him  as  a  duty. 
In  fact,  as  a  duty  that  he  owed  to  society." 

Mr.  Merdle  intimated  that  society  was  the  apple  of  his 
eye,  and  that  its  claims  were  paramount  to  every  other  con- 
sideration.    Treasury  moved  on,  and  Bar  came  up. 

Bar,  withjiis  little_.liisinuating  jury  droop,  and  fingering 
his  persuasive  double  eye-glass,  hoped  he  might  be  excused 
if  he  mentioned  to  one  of  the  greatest  converters  of  the  root 
oraTTevil  into  the  root  of  all  good,  who  had  for  a  long  time 
reflected  a  shining  luster  on  the  annals  even  of  our  com- 
mercial country — if  "he  mentioned,  disinterestedly,  and  as, 
what  we  lawyers  called  in  our  pedantic  way  amicus  curice^  a 
fact  that  had  come  by  accident  within  his  knowledge.     He       A 


able  estate  in  one  of  the  eastern  counties — lying,  in  fact, 
for  Mr.  Merdle  knew  we  lawyers  loved  to  be  particular,  on 


t^ 


had  been  required  to  look  over  the  title  of  a  very  consider-     J 

n 

the  borders  of   two  of  the  eastern  counties.     Now,  the  title 
was  perfectly  sound,  and  the  estate  was  to  be  purchased  by  ..  \ 
one  who  had  the  command  of — money  (jury  droop  and  per- \    ft; 
suasive  eye-glass),  on  remarkably  advantageous  terms.     This  p^ 
had  come  to   Bar's   knowledge  only  that  day,  and  it  had 
occurred  to  him  **  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  dining  with  my 
esteemed    friend,    Mr.    Merdle,    this   evening,    and    strictly 
between  ourselves,  I  will  mention  the  opportunity."     Such  a 
purchase  would  involve  not  only  great  legitimate  political 


256  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

influence,  but  some  half-dozen  church  presentations  of  con- 
siderable annual  value.  Now,  that  Mr.  Merdle  was  already 
at  no  loss  to  discover  means  of  occupying  even  his  capital, 
and  of  fully  employing  even  his  active  and  vigorous  intellect, 
Bar  well  knew  :  but  he  would  venture  to  suggest  that  the 
question  arose  in  his  mind,  whether  one  who  had  deservedly 
gained  so  high  a  position  and  so  European  a  reputation  did 
not  owe  it — we  would  not  say  to  himself,  but  we  would  say 
to  society,  to  possess  himself  of  such  influences  as  these;  and 
to  exercise  them — we  would  not  say  for  his  own,  or  for  his 
party's,  but  we  would  say  for  society's — benefit. 

Mr.  Merdle  again  expressed  himself  as  wholly  devoted 
to  that  object  of  his  constant  consideration,  and  Bar  took 
his  persuasive  eye-glass  up  the  grand  staircase.  Bishop 
then  came  undesignedly  sliding  in  the  direction  of  the  side- 
board. 

Surely  the  goods  of  this  world,  it  occurred  in  an  accidental 
way  to  Bishop  to  remark,  could  scarcely  be  directed  into  hap- 
pier channels  than  when  they  accumulated  under  the  magic 
touch  of  the  wise  and  sagacious,  who,  while  they  knew  the 
just  value  of  riches  (Bishop  tried  here  to  look  as  if  he  were 
rather  poor  himself),  were  aware  of  their  importance, 
judiciously  governed  and  rightly  distributed,  to  the  welfare 
of  our  brethren  at  large. 

Mr.  Merdle  with  humility  expressed  his  conviction  that 
Bishop  couldn't  mean  him,  and  with  inconsistency  expressed 
his  high  gratification  in  Bishop's  good  opinion. 

Bishop  then — ^jauntily  stepping  out  a  little  with  his  well- 
shaped  right  leg,  as  though  he  said  to  Mr.  Merdle  **  don't 
mind  the  apron  ;  a  mere  form  !  " — put  jthis  case  to  his  good 
friend  : 

Whether  it  had  occurred  to  his  good  friend,  that  society 
might  not  unreasonably  hope  that  one  so  blest  in  his  under- 
takings, and  whose  example  on  his  pedestal  was  so  influential 
with  it,  would  shed  a  little  money  in  the  direction  of  a  mis- 
sion or  so  to  Africa  ? 

Mr.  Merdle  signifying  that  the  idea  should  have  his  best 
attention.  Bishop  put  another  case  : 

Whether  his  good  friend  had  at  all  interested  himself  in 
the  proceedings  of  our  Combined  Additional  Endowed  Dig- 
nitaries Committee,  and  whether  it  had  occurred  to  him  that 
to  shed  a  little  money  in  that  direction  might  be  a  great  con- 
ception finely  executed  ? 

Mr.  Merdle  made  a  similar  reply,  and  Bishop  explained 
his  reason  for  innniring. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  257 

Society  looked  to  such  men  as  his  good  friend  to  do  such 
things.  It  was  not  thcit /le  looked  to  them,  but  that  society- 
looked  to  them.  Just  as  ij  was  not  our  committee  who 
wanted  the  Additional  Endowed  Dignitaries,  but  it  was 
society  that  was  in  a  state  of  the  most  agonizing  uneasiness 
of  mind  until  it  got  them.  He  begged  to  assure  his  good 
friend,  that  he  was  extremely  sensible  of  his  good  friend's 
regard  on  all  occasions  for  the  best  interests  of  society;  and 
he  considered  that  he  was  at  once  consulting  those  interests, 
and  expressing  the  feeling  of  society,  when  he  wished  him 
continued  prosperity,  continued  increase  of  riches,  and  con- 
tinued things  in  general. 

Bishop  then  betook  himself  up  stairs,  and  the  other  mag- 
nates gradually  floated  up  after  him  until  there  was  no  one 
left  below  but  Mr.  Merdle.  That  gentleman,  after  looking 
at  the  table-cloth  until  the  soul  of  the  chief  butler  glowed 
with  a  noble  resentment,  went  slowly  up  after  the  rest,  and 
became  of  no  account  in  the  stream  of  people  on  the  grand 
staircase.  Mrs.  Merdle  was  at  home,  the  best  of  the  jewels 
were  hung  out  to  be  seen,  society  got  what  it  came  for,  Mr. 
Merdle  drank  two  pennyworth  of  tea  in  a  corner  and  got 
more  than  he  wanted. 

Among  the  evening  magnates  was  a  famous  physician,  who 
knew  every  body,  and  whom  every  body  knew.  On  entering 
at  the  door,  he  came  upon  Mr.  Merdle  drinking  his  tea  in  a 
corner,  and  tonched  him  on  the  arm. 

Mr.  Merdle  started.     ''  Oh  !     It's  you  !" 

"  Any  better  to-day  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  ''  I  am  no  better." 

**  A  pity  I  didn't  see  you  this  morning.  Pray  come  to  me 
to-morrow,  or  let  me  come  to  you." 

"  Well  !"  he  replied.     *'*  I  will  come  to-morrow  as  I  drive 

Bar  and  Bishop  kad  both  been  by-standers  during  this 
short  dialogue,  and  as  Mr.  Merdle  was  swept  away  by  the 
crowd,  they  made  their  remarks  upon  it  to  the  physician. 
Bar  said,  there  was  a  certain  point  of  mental  strain  beyond 
which  no  man  could  go  ;  that  the  point  varied  with  various 
textures  of  brain  and  peculiarities  of  constitution,  as  he  had 
had  occasion  to  notice  in  several  of  his  learned  brothers;  but, 
the  point  of  endurance  passed  by  a  line's  breadth,  depression 
and  dyspepsia  ensued.  Not  to  intrude  on  the  sacred 
mysteries  of  medicine,  he  took  it,  now  (with  the  jury  droop 
and   persuasive   eye-glass),    that  this   was    Merdle's    case  ? 


258  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Bishop  said  that  when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  had  fallen 
for  a  brief  space  into  the  habit  of  writing  sermons  on  Satur- 
days, a  habit  which  all  young  sons  of  the  church  should  sedu- 
lously avoid,  he  had  frequently  been  sensible  of  a  depression, 
arising  as  he  supposed  from  an  over-taxed  intellect,  upon 
which  the  yolk  of  a  new-laid  egg,  beaten  up  by  the  good 
woman  in  whose  house  he  at  that  time  lodged,  with  a  glass 
of  sound  sherry,  nutmeg,  and  powdered  sugar,  acted  like  a 
charm.  Without  presuming  to  offer  so  simple  a  remedy  to 
the  consideration  of  so  profound  a  professor  of  the  great 
healing  art,  he  would  venture  to  inquire  whether  the  strain, 
being  by  way  of  intricate  calculations,  the  spirits  might  not 
(humanly  speaking)  be  restored  to  their  tone  by  a  gentle  and 
yet  generous  stimulant  ? 

**  Yes,"  said  the  physician,  "  yes,  you  are  both  right.  But 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  can  find  nothing  the  matter 
with  Mr.  Merdle.  He  has  the  constitution  of  a  rhinoceros, 
the  digestion  of  an  ostrich,  and  the  concentration  of  an 
oyster.  As  to  nerves,  Mr.  M'erdle  is  of  a  cool  temperament, 
and  not  a  sensitive  man  ;  is  about  as  invulnerable,  I  should 
say,  as  Achilles.  How  such  a  man  should  suppose  himself 
unwell  without  reason,  you  may  think  strange.  But  I  have 
found  nothing  the  matter  with  him.  He  may  have  some 
deep-seated  recondite  complaint.  I  can't  say.  I  only  say, 
that  at  present  I  have  not  found  it  out." 

There  was  no  shadow  of  Mr.  Merdle's  complaint  on  the 
bosom  now  displaying  precious  stones  in  rivalry  with  many 
similar  superb  jewel-stands  ;  there  was  no  shadow  of  Mr. 
Merdle's  complaint  on  young  Sparkler  hovering  about  the 
rooms,  monomaniacally  seeking  any  sufficiently  ineligible 
young  lady  with  no  nonsense  about  her;  there  was  no  shadow 
of  Mr.  Merdle's  complaint  on  the  Barnacles  and  Stiltstalk- 
ings,  of  whom  whole  colonies  were  present;  or  on  any  of 
the  company.  Even  on  himself,  its  shadow  was  faint 
enough  as  he  moved  about  among  the  throng,  receiving 
homage. 

Mr  Merdle's.  complaint.  Society  and  he  had  so  much  to 
do  witTT^one  another  in  all  tilings  else,  that  it"  is  hard'To^ 
imagine  his  complaint,  if  he  had  one,  being  soleT)rTris'~own 
affair.  Had  he  that  deep-seated  recondite  complaint,  and  did 
any  doctor  find  it  out  ?  Patience.  In  the  meantime,  the 
shadow  of  the  Marshalsea  wall  was  a  real  darkening  influ- 
ence, and  could  be  seen  on  the  Dorrit  family  at  any  stage  of 
the  sun's  course. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  259 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

A    PUZZLE. 

Mr.  Clennam  did  not  increase  in  favor  with  the  father 
of  the  Marshalsea  in  the  ratio  of  his  increasing  visits.  His 
obtuseness  on  the  great  testimonial  question  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  awaken  admiration  in  the  paternal  breast,  but  had 
rather  a  tendency  to  give  offense  in  that  sensitive  quarter, 
and  to  be  regarded  as  a  positive  shortcoming  in  point  of 
gentlemanly  feeling.  An  impression  of  disappointment, 
occasioned  by  the  discovery  that  Mr.  Clennam  scarcely 
possessed  that  delicacy  for  which,  in  the  confidence  of  his 
nature,  he  had  been  inclined  to  give  him  credit,  began  to 
darken  the  fatherly  mind  in  connection  with  that  gentleman. 
The  father  went  so  far  as  to  say,  in  his  private  family  circle, 
that  he  feared  Mr.  Clennam  was  not  a  man  of  high  instincts. 
He  was  happy,  he  observed,  in  his  public  capacity  as  leader 
and  representative  of  the  college,  to  receive  Mr.  Clennam 
when  he  called  to  pay  his  respects;  but  he  didn't  find  that 
he  got  on  with  him  personally.  There  appeared  to  be  some- 
thing (he  didn't  know  what  it  was)  wanting  in  him.  Howbeit, 
the  father  did  not  fail  in  any  outward  show  of  politeness, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  honored  him  with  much  attention;  per- 
haps cherishing  the  hope  that,  although  not  a  man  of  suffi- 
ciently brilliant  and  spontaneous  turn  of  mind  to  repeat  his 
former  testimonial  unsolicited,  it  might  still  be  within  the 
compass  of  his  nature  to  bear  the  part  of  a  responsive  gentle- 
man, in  any  correspondence  that  way  tending. 

In  the  threefold  capacity  of  the  gentleman  from  outside 
who  had  been  accidentally  locked  in  on  the  night  of  his  first 
appearance,  of  the  gentleman  from  outside  who  had  inquired 
into  the  affairs  of  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  with  the  stu- 
pendous idea  of  getting  him  out,  and  of  the  gentleman  from 
outside  who  took  an  interest  in  the  child  of  the  Marshalsea, 
Clennam  soon  became  a  visitor  of  mark.  He  was  not  sur- 
prised by  the  attentions  he  received  from  Mr.  Chivery  when 
that  officer  was  on  the  lock,  for  he  made  little  distinction 
between  Mr.  Chivery's  politeness  and  that  of  the  other  turn- 
keys.* It  was  on  one  particular  afternoon  that  Mr.  Chivery 
surprised  him  all  at  once,  and  stood  forth  from  his  com- 
panions in  bold  relief. 

Mr.   Chivery,  by  some  artful  exercise   of   his    power    of 


26o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

clearing  the  lodge,  had  contrived  to  rid  it  of  all  sauntering 
collegians;  so  that  Clennam,  coming  out  of  the  prison,  should 
find  him  on  duty  alone. 

"(Private)  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Chivery  in  a 
secret  manner;  "  but  which  way  might  you  be  going  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  over  the  Bridge."  He  saw  in  Mr.  Chivery, 
with  some  astonishment,  quite  an  allegory  of  silence,  as  he 
stood  with  his  key  on  his  lips. 

"  (Private)  I  ask  your  pardon  again,"  said  Mr.  Chivery, 
"  but  could  you  go  round  by  Horsemonger  Lane  ?  Could  you 
by  any  means  find  time  to  look  in  at  that  address  ?  "  handing 
him  a  little  card,  printed  for  circulation  among  the  connec- 
tion of  Chivery  &  Co.,  Tobacconists,  Importers  of  pure 
Havana  Cigars,  Bengal  Cheroots,  and  fine- flavored  Cubas, 
Dealers  in  Fancy  Snuffs,  etc.,  etc. 

**  (Private)  ''  It  ain't  tobacco  business,"  said  Mr.  Chivery. 
"  The  truth  is,  it's  my  wife.  She's  wishful  to  say  a  word  to 
you,  sir,  upon  a  point  respecting — yes,"  said  Mr.  Chivery, 
answering  Clennam's  look  of  apprehension  with  a  nod, 
"  respecting  her!' 

"  I  will  make  a  point  of  seeing  your  wife  directly." 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Much  obliged.  It  ain't  above  ten  min- 
utes out  of  your  way.  Please  to  ask  for  Mrs.  Chivery  !  " 
These  instructions,  Mr.  Chivery,  who  had  already  let  him 
out,  cautiously  called  through  a  little  slide  in  the  outer  door, 
which  he  could  draw  back  from  within  for  the  inspection  of 
visitors,  when  it  pleased  him. 

Arthur  Clennam,  with  the  card  in  his  hand,  betook  him- 
self to  the  address  set  forth  upon  it,  and  speedily  arrived 
there.  It  was  a  very  small  establishment,  wherein  a  decent 
woman  sat  behind  the  counter  working  at  her  needle.  Lit- 
tle jars  of  tobacco,  little  boxes  of  cigars,  a  little  assortment 
of  pipes,  a  little  jar  or  two  of  snuff,  and  a  little  instrument 
like  a  shoeing  horn  for  serving  it  out,  composed  the  retail 
stock  in  trade. 

Arthur  mentioned  his  name,  and  his  having  promised  to 
call,  on  the  solicitation  of  Mr.  Chivery.  About  something 
relating  to  Miss  Dorrit,  he  believed.  Mrs.  Chivery  at  once 
laid  aside  her  work,  rose  up  from  her  seat  behind  the  coun- 
ter, and  deploringly  shook  her  head. 

"  You  may  see  him  now,"  said  she,  "  if  you'll  condescend 
to  take  a  peep." 

With  these  mysterious  words,  she  preceded  the  visitor 
into  a  little  parlor  behind  the  shop,  with  a  little  window  in 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  261 

> 
it  commanding  a  very  little  dull  back-yard.  In  this  yard  a 
wash  of  sheets  and  table-cloths  tried  (in  vain,  for  want  of  air) 
to  get  itself  dried  on  a  line  or  two;  and  among  those  flap- 
ping articles  was  sitting  in  a  chair,  like  the  last  mariner  left 
alive  on  the  deck  of  a  damp  ship  without  the  power  of  furling 
the  sails,  a  little  woe-begone  young  man. 

"  Our  John,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery. 

Not  to  be  deficient  in  interest,  Clennam  asked  what  he 
might  be  doing  there  ? 

"  It's  the  only  change  he  takes,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  shak- 
ing her  head  afresh.  ''  He  won't  go  out,  even  in  the  back- 
yard, when  there's  no  linen;  but  when  there's  linen  to  keep 
the  neighbor's  eyes  off,  he'll  sit  there,  hours.  Hours  he  will. 
Says  he  feels  as  if  it  was  groves  !  "  Mrs.  Chivery  shook  her 
head  again,  put  her  apron  in  a  motherly  way  to  her  eyes, 
and  reconducted  her  visitor  into  the  regions  of  the  busi- 
ness. 

"  Please  to  take  a  seat,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery.  ^^  Miss 
Dorrit  is  the  matter  with  our  John,  sir;  he's  a  breaking  his 
heart  for  her,  and  I  would  wish  to  take  the  liberty  to  ask 
how  it's  to  be  made  good  to  his  parents  when  bust  ? " 

Mrs.  Chivery,  who  was  a  comfortable  looking  woman, 
much  respected  about  Horsemonger  Lane  for  her  feelings 
and  her  conversation,  uttered  this  speech  with  fell  composure, 
and  immediately  afterward  began  again  to  shake  her  head 
and  dry  her  eyes. 

^^ Sir,"  said  she  in  continuation,  "you  are  aquainted  with 
the  family,  and  have  interested  yourself  with  the  family,  and 
are  influential  with  the  family.  If  you  can  promote  views 
calculated  to  make  two  young  people  happy,  let  me,  for  our 
John's  sake,  and  for  both  their  sakes,  implore  you  so  to  do." 

"  I  have  been  so  habituated,"  returned  Arthur,  at  a  loss, 
^'  during  the  short  time  I  have  known  her,  to  consider  Little 
— I  have  been  so  habituated  to  consider  Miss  Dorrit  in  a  light 
altogether  removed  from  that  in  which  you  present  her  to 
me,  that  you  quite  take  me  by  surprise.  Does  she  know 
your  son  ?" 

"  Brought  up  together,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery.  "  Played 
together." 

"  Does  she  know  your  son  as  her  admirer  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  with  a  sort  of 
triumphant  shiver,  '^  she  never  could  have  seen  him  on  a 
Sunday  without  knowing  he  was  that.  His  cane  alone  would 
have  told  it  long  ago,  if  nothing  else  had.     Young  men  like 


262  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

John  don't  take  to  ivory  hands  a  pinting,  for  nothing.  How- 
did  I  first  know  it  myself  ?     Similarly." 

"Perhaps  Miss  Dorrit  may  not  be  so  ready  as  you,  you 
see." 

"  Then  she  knows  it,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  **  by  word  of 
mouth." 

*^  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

**  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  "  sure  and  certain  as  in  this 
house  I  am.  I  see  my  son  go  out  with  my  own  eyes  when  in 
this  house  I  was,  and  I  see  my  son  come  in  with  my  own  eyes 
when  in  this  house  I  was,  and  I  know  he  done  it  !  "  Mrs. 
Chivery  derived  a  surprising  force  of  emphasis  from  the 
foregoing  circumstantiality  and  repetition. 

"  May  I  ask  you  how  he  came  to  fall  into  the  desponding 
state  which  causes  you  so  much  uneasiness  ?  " 

"  That/'  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  "  took  place  on  that  same  day 
when  to  this  house  I  see  that  John  with  these  eyes  return. 
Never  been  himself  in  this  house  since.  Never  was  like  what 
he  has  been  since,  not  from  the  hour  when  to  this  house 
seven  year  ago  me  and  his  father,  as  tenants  by  the  quarter, 
came  !  "  An  effect  in  the  nature  of  an  affidavit  was  gained 
for  this  speech,  by  Mrs.  Chivery's  peculiar  power  of  con- 
struction. 

"  May  I  venture  to  inquire  what  is  your  version  of  the 
matter  ? " 

"  You  may,"  said  Mrs.  Chivery,  "  and  I  will  give  it  you 
in  honor  and  in  word  as  true  as  in  this  shop  I  stand.  Our 
John  has  every  one's  good  word  and  every  one's  good  wish. 
He  played  wdth  her  as  a  child  w^hen  in  that  yard  a  child  she 
played.  He  has  known  her  ever  since.  He  went  out  upon 
the  Sunday  afternoon  when  in  this  very  parlor  he  had  dined, 
and  met  her,  with  appointment  or  without  appointment 
which  I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  He  made  his  offer  to  her. 
Her  brother  and  sister  is  high  in  their  views,  and  against  our 
John.  Her  father  is  all  for  himself  in  his  views  and  against 
sharing  her  with  any  one.  Under  which  circumstances  she 
has  answered  our  John,  ^  No,  John,  I  can  not  have  you,  I 
can  not  have  any  husband,  it  is  not  my  intentions  ever  to  be- 
come a  wife,  it  is  my  intentions  to  be  always  a  sacrifice, 
farewell,  find  another  worthy  of  you,  and  forget  me  ! '  This 
is  the  way  in  which  she  is  doomed  to  be  a  constant  slave,  to 
them  that  are  not  worthy  that  a  constant  slave  she  unto  them 
should  be.  This  is  the  way  in  which  our  John  has  come  to 
find  no  pleasure  but  in  taking  cold  among  the  linen,  and  in 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  263 

showing  in  that  yard,  as  in  that  yard  I  have  myself  shown 
you,  a  broken-down  ruin  that  goes  home  to  his  mother's 
heart !  "  Here  the  good  woman  pointed  to  the  little  window, 
whence  her  son  might  be  seen  sitting  disconsolate  in  the 
tuneless  groves  ;  and  again  shook  her  head  and  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  besought  him,  for  the  united  sakes  of  both  the 
young  people,  to  exercise  his  influence  toward  the  bright 
reversal  of  these  dismal  events. 

She  was  so  confident  in  her  exposition  of  the  case,  and  it 
v/as  so  undeniably  founded  on  correct  premises  in  so  far  as 
the  relative  positions  of  Little  Dorrit  and  her  family  were 
concerned,  that  Clennam  could  not  feel  positive  on  the  other 
side.  He  had  come  to  attach  to  Little  Dorrit  an  interest  so 
peculiar — an  interest  that  removed  her  from,  while  it  grew 
out  of,  the  common  and  coarse  things  surrounding  her — that 
he  found  it  disappointing,  disagreeable,  almost  painful,  to 
suppose  her  in  love  with  young  Mr.  Chivery  in  the  back- 
yard, or  any  such  person.  On  the  other  hand,  he  reasoned 
with  himself  that  she  was  just  as  good  and  just  as  true,  in 
love  with  him,  as  not  in  love  with  him  ;  and  that  to  make  a 
kind  of  domesticated  fairy  of  her,  on  the  penalty  of  isolation 
at  heart  from  the  only  people  she  knew,  would  be  but  a 
weakness  of  his  own  fancy,  and  not  a  kind  one.  Still,  her 
youthful  and  ethereal  appearance,  her  timid  manner,  the 
charm  of  her  sensitive  voice  and  eyes,  the  very  many  respects 
in  which  she  had  interested  him  out  of  her  own  individuality, 
and  the  strong  difference  between  herself  and  those  about 
her,  were  not  in  unison,  and  were  determined  not  to  be  in 
unison,  with  this  newly  presented  idea. 

He  told  the  worthy  Mrs.  Chivery,  after  turning  these 
things  over  in  his  mind — he  did  that,  indeed,  while  she  was 
yet  speaking — that  he  might  be  relied  upon  to  do  his  ut- 
most at  all  times  to  promote  the  happiness  of  Miss  Dorrit, 
and  to  further  the  wishes  of  her  heart  if  it  were  in  his 
power  to  do  so,  and  if  he  could  discover  what  they  were. 
At  the  same  time  he  cautioned  her  against  assumptions  and 
appearances  ;  enjoined  strict  silence  and  secrecy,  lest  Miss 
Dorrit  should  be  made  unhappy  ;  and  particularly  advised 
her  to  endeavor  to  win  her  son's  confidence  and  so  to  make 
quite  sure  of  the  state  of  the  case.  Mrs.  Chivery  con- 
sidered the  latter  precaution  superfluous,  but  said  she  would 
try.  She  shook  her  head  as  if  she  had  not  derived  all 
the  comfort  she  had  fondly  expected  from  this  interview, 
but  thanked  him  nevertheless  for  the  trouble  he  had  kindly 


264  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

taken.     They  then  parted  good  friends,  and  Arthur  walked, 
away. 

The  crowd  in  the  street  jostling  the  crowd  in  his  mind, 
and  the  two  crowds  making  a  confusion,  he  avoided  Lon- 
don Bridge  and  turned  off  in  the  quieter  direction  of  the 
Iron  Bridge.  He  had  scarcely  set  foot  upon  it,  when  he 
saw  Little  Dorrit  walking  on  before  him.  It  was  a  pleasant 
day,  with  a  light  breeze  blowing,  and  she  seemed  to  have 
that  minute  come  there  for  air.  He  had  left  her  in  her 
father's  room  within  an  hour. 

It  was  a  timely  chance,  favorable  to  his  wish  of  observ- 
ing her  face  and  manner  when  no  one  else  was  by.  He 
quickened  his  pace  ;  but,  before  he  reached  her,  she  turned 
her  head. 

"  Have  I  startled  you  ?"  he  asked. 

*'  I  thought  I  knew  the  step,"  she  answered,  hesitating. 

"  And  did  you  know  it.  Little  Dorrit  ?  You  could  hardly 
have  expected  mine." 

'^  I  did  not  expect  any.  But  when  I  heard  a  step,  I 
thought  it — sounded  like  yours." 

"  Are  you  going  further  ? " 

**  No,  sir,  I  am  only  walking  here  for  a  little  change." 

They  walked  together,  ajid  she  recovered  her  confiding 
manner  with  him,  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  as  she  said, 
after  glancing  around  : 

"  It  is  so  strange.  Perhaps  you  can  hardly  understand 
it.  I  sometimes  have  a  sensation  as  if  it  was  almost  unfeel- 
ing to  walk  here." 

''  Unfeeling  ?  " 

"  To  see  the  river,  and  so  much  sky,  and  so  many  objects, 
and  such  change  and  motion.  Then  to  go  back,  you  know, 
and  find  him  in  the  same  Gramped  place." 

*'  Ah  yes  !  But  going  back  you  must  remember  that  you 
take  with  you  the  spirit  and  influence  of  such  things  to  cheer 
himV' 

*'  Do  I  ?  I  hope  I  may  !  I  am  afraid  you  fancy  too  much, 
sir,  and  make  me  out  too  powerful.  If  you  were  in  prison, 
could  I  bring  such  comfort  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Little  Dorrit,  I  am  sure  of  it  !  " 

He  gathered  from  a  tremor  on  her  lip,  and  a  passing 
shadow  of  great  agitation  on  her  face,  that  her  mind  was 
with  her  father.  He  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments, 
that  she  might  regain  her  composure.  The  Little  Dorrit, 
trembling  on  his  arm,   was  less  in  unison  than  ever  with 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  265 

Mrs.  Chivery's  theory,  and  yet  was  not  irreconcilable  with  a 
new  fancy  which-  sprung  up  within  him,  that  there  might  be 
soime  one  else  in  the  hopeless — newer  fancy  still — in  the 
hopeless  unattainable  distance. 

They  turned,  and  Clennam  said,  Here  was  Maggy  com- 
ing !  Lktle  Dorrit  looked  up,  surprised,  and  they  confronted 
Maggy,  who  brought  herself  at  sight  of  them  to  a  dead  stop. 
She  had  been  trotting  along,  so  pre-occupied  and  busy,  that 
she  had  not  recognized  them  until  they  turned  upon  her. 
She  was  now  in  a  moment  so  conscience-stricken  that  her 
very  basket  partook  of  the  change. 

''  Maggy,  you  promised  me  to  stop  near  father." 
^'  So  I  would,  little  mother,  Qfnly  he  wouldn't  let  me.     If 
he  takes  and  sends  me  out,  I  must  go.    If  he  takes  and  says, 

*  Maggy,  you  hurry  away  and  back  with  that  letter,  and  you 
shall  have  a  six-pence  if  the  answer's  a  good  'un,'  I  must 
take  it.  Lor,  little  mother,  what's  a  poor  thing  of  ten  years 
old  to  do  ?  And  if  Mr.  Tip — if  he  happens  to  be  a  coming 
in  as  I  cofiie  out,  and  if  he  says,  *  Where  are  you  going, 
Maggie  ? '  and  if  I  says,  *  I'm  going  so  and  so,'  and  if  he  says, 

*  I'll  have  a  try  too,  '  and  if  he  goes  into  the  George  and 
writes  a  letter,  and  if  he  gives  it  me  and  says,  *  Take  that 
one  to  the  same  place,  and  if  the  ans^ver's  a  good  'un  I'll 
give  you  a  shilling,'  it  ain't  my  fault,  mother  !  " 

Arthur  read,  in  Little  Dorrit's  downcast  eyes,  to  whom 
she  foresaw  that  the  letters  were  addressed. 

"  I'm  a  going  so  and  so.  There  !  That's  where  I  am  a 
going  to,"  said  Maggy.  *^  I'm  a  going  so  and  so.  It  an't 
you,  little  mother,  that's  got  any  thing  to  do  with  it — it's  you, 
you  know,"  said  Maggy,  addressing  Arthur,  ''  You'd  better 
come,  so  and  so,  and  let  me  take  and  give  'em  to  you." 

"  We  will  not  be  so  particular  as  that,  Maggy.  Give  them 
me  here,"  said  Clennam,  in  a  low  voice. 

**  Well,  then,  come  across  the  road,"  answered  Maggy,  in 
a  very  loud  whisper.  "  Little  mother  wasn't  to  know  noth- 
ing of  it,  and  she  would  never  have  known  nothing  of  it  if 
you  had  only  gone,  so  and  so,  instead  of  bothering  and 
loitering  about.  It  ain't  my  fault.  I  must  do  what  I  am 
told.  They  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  themselves  for  telling 
me." 

Clennam  crossed  to  the  other  side,  and  hurriedly  opened 
th-e  letters.  That  from  the  father,  mentioned  that  most 
unexpectedly  finding  himself  in  the  novel  position  of  having 
been  disappointed  of  a  remittance  from  the  city  on  which 


266  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

he  had  confidently  counted,  he  took  up  his  pen,  being 
restrained  by  the  unhappy  circumstance  of  his  incarcera- 
tion during  three  and  twenty  years  (doubly  underlined), 
from  coming  himself,  as  he  would  otherwise  certainly  have 
done — took  up  his  pen  to  entreat  Mr.  Clennam  to  advance 
him  the  sum  of  three  pounds  ten  shillings  upon  his  LO.U., 
which  he  begged  to  inclose.  That  from  the  son  set  forth 
that  Mr.  Clennam  would,  he  knew,  be  gratified  to  hear  that 
he  had  at  length  obtained  perrhanent  employment  of  a  highly 
satisfactory  nature,  accompanied  with  every  prospect  of 
complete  success  in  life;  but  that  the  temporary  inability  of 
his  employer  to  pay  him  his  arrears  of  salary  to  that  date  (in 
which  condition  said  employer  had  appealed  to  that  generous 
forbearance  in  which  he  trusted  he  should  never  be  wanting 
toward  a  fellow-creature,  combined  with  the  fraudulent  con- 
duct of  a  false  friend,  and  the  present  high  price  of  pro- 
visions, had  reduced  him  to  the  verge  of  ruin,  unless  he  could 
by  a  quarter  before  six  that  evening  raise  the  sum  of  eight 
pounds.  This  sum,  Mr.  Clennam  would  be  happy  to  learn, 
he  had,  through  the  promptitude  of  several  friends  who  had 
a  lively  confidence  in  his  probity,  already  raised,  with  the 
exception  of  a  trifling  balance  of  one  pound  seventeen  and 
four-pence;  the  loan  of  which  balance,  for  the  period  of  one 
month,  would  be  fraught  with  the  usual  beneficent  conse- 
quences. 

These  letters  Clennam  answered  with  the  aid  of  his  pencil 
and  pocket-book,  on  the  spot;  sending  the  father  what  he 
asked  for,  and  excusing  himself  from  compliance  with  the 
demand  of  the  son.  He  then  commissioned  Maggy  to 
return  with  his  replies,  and  gave  her  the  shilling  of  which 
the  failure  of  her  supplemental  enterprise  would  have  dis- 
appointed her^otherwise. 

When  he  rejoined  Little  Dorrit,  and  they  had  begun  walk- 
ing as  before,  she  said  all  at  once: 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go.     I  had  better  go  home." 

"  Don't  be  distressed,"  said  Clennam,  "  I  have  answered 
the  letters.  They  were  nothing.  You  know  what  they  were. 
They  were  nothing." 

"  But  I  am  afraid,"  she  returned,  "  to  leave  him,  I  am 
afraid  to  leave  any  of  them.  When  I  am  gone,  they  pervert 
— ^but  they  don't  mean  it — even  Maggy." 

1'  It  was  a  very  innocent  commission  that  she  undertook, 
poor  thing.  And  in  keeping  it  secret  from  you,  she  supposedj 
no  doubt,  that  she  was  only  saving  you  uneasiness." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  267 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,  I  hope  so.  But  I  had  better  go  home  ! 
It  was  but  the  other  day  that  my  sister  told  me  I  had  become 
so  used  to  the  prison  that  I  had  its  tone  and  character.  It 
must  be  so.  I  am  sure  it  must  be  when  I  see  these  things. 
My  place  is  there.  I  am  better  there.  It  is  unfeeling  in  me 
to  be  here,  when  I  can  do  the  least  thing  there.  Good-by. 
I  had  far  better  stay  at  home  !  " 

The  agonized  way  in  which  she  poured  this  out,  as  if  it 
burst  of  itself  from  her  suppressed  heart,  made  it  difficult  for 
Clennam  to  keep  the  tears  from  his  eyes  as  he  saw  and 
heard  it. 

"  Don't  call  it  home,  my  child  !  "  he  entreated.  "  It  is  al- 
ways painful  to  me  to  hear  you  call  it  home." 

"  But  it  is  home!  What  else  can  I  call  home?  Why  should 
I  ever  forget  it  for  a  single  moment  ?  " 

"  You  never  do,  dear  Little  Dorrit,  in  any  good  and  true 
service." 

**  I  hope  not,  oh  I  hope  not  !  But  it  is  better  for  me  to 
stay  there;  much  better,  much  more  dutiful,  much  happier. 
Please  don't  go  with  me,  let  me  go  by  myself.  Good-by,  God 
bless  you.     Thank  you,  thank  you." 

He  felt  that  it  was  better  to  respect  her  entreaty,  and  did 
not  move  while  her  slight  form  went  quickly  away  from  him. 
When  it  had  fluttered  out  of  sight,  he  turned  his  face  toward 
the  water  and  stood  thinking. 

She  would  have  been  distressed  at  any  time  by  this  dis- 
covery of  the  letters;  but  so  much  so,  and  in  that  unrestrain- 
able  way  ? 

No. 

When  she  had  seen  her  father  begging  with  his  threadbare 
disguise  on,  when  she  had  entreated  him  not  to  give  her 
father  money,  she  had  been  distressed,  but  not  like  this. 
Something  had  made  her  keenly  and  additionally  sensitive 
just  now.  Now,  was  there  some  one  in  the  hopeless  unat- 
tainable distance  ?  Or  had  the  suspicion  been  brought  into 
his  mind,  by  his  own  associations  of  the  troubled  river  run- 
ning beneath  the  bridge  with  the  same  river  higher  up, 
its  changeless  tune  upon  the  prow  of  the  ferry-boat,  so 
many  miles  an  hour  the  peaceful  flowing  of  the  stream, 
here  the  rushes,  there  the  lilies,  nothing  uncertain  or  un- 
quiet ? 

He  thought  of  his  poor  child.  Little  Dorrit,  for  a  long 
time  there;  he  thought  of  her  going  home;  he  thought  of  her 
in  the  night;  he  thought  of  her  when  the  day  came  round 


268  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

again.  And  the  poor  child  Little  Dorrit  thought  of  him— • 
too  faithfully,  ah,  too  faithfully  ! — in  the  shadow  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea  wall. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

MACHINERYINMOTION. 

Mr.  Meagles  bestirred  himself  with  such  prompt  activity 
in  the  matter  of  the  negotiation  with  Daniel  Doyce  which 
Clennam  had  intrusted  to  him,  that  he  soon  brought  it  into 
business  train,  and  called  on  Clennam  at  nine  o'clock  one 
morning  to  make  his  report. 

"  Doyce  is  highly  gratified  by  your  good  opinion,'*  he  op- 
ened the  business  by  saying,  ^'  and  desires  nothing  so  much 
as  that  you  should  examine  the  affairs  of  the  works  for  your- 
self, and  entirely  understand  them.  He  has  handed  me  the 
keys  of  all  his  books  and  papers — here  they  are  jingling  in 
this  pocket — and  the  only  charge  he  has  given  me  is  '  Let 
Mr.  Clennam  have  the  means  of  putting  himself  on  a  perfect 
equality  with  me  as  to  knowing  whatever  I  know.  If  it 
should  come  to  nothing  after  all,  he  will  respect  my  confi- 
dence. Unless  I  was  sure  of  that  to  begin  with,  I  should 
have  nothing  to  do  with  him.'  And  there,  you  see,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  "you  have  Daniel  Doyce  all  over," 

"  A  very  honorable  character." 

"  Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Not  a  doubt  of  it.  Odd,  but  very 
honorable.  Very  odd,  though.  Now,  would  you  believe, 
Clennam,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  a  hearty  enjoyment  of  his 
friend's  eccentricity,  "  that  I  had  a  whole  morning  in  What's- 
his-name  Yard " 

"  Bleeding  Heart  !  " 

'*'  A  whole  morning  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  before  I  could 
induce  him  to  pursue  the  subject  at  all  ? " 

''  How  was  that  ?  " 

**  How  was  that,  my  friend  ?  I  no  sooner  mentioned  your 
name  in  connection  with  it,  than  he  declared  off." 

*^  Declared  off,  on  my  account  ?  " 

**  I  no  sooner  mentioned  your  name,  Clennam,  than  he 
said,  *  That  will  never  do  ! '  What  did  he  mean  by  that  ?  I 
asked  him.  No  matter,  Meagles  ;  that  would  never  do.  Why 
would  it  never  do  ?  You'll  hardly  believe  it,  Clennam,"  said 
Mr.  Meagles,  laughing  within  himself,  "  but  it  came  out  that 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  269 

it  would  never  do,  because  you  and  he,  walking  down  to 
Twickenham  together,  had  glided  into  a  friendly  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  had  referred  to  his  intention 
of  taking  a  partner,  supposing  at  the  time  that  you  were  as 
firmly  and  finally  settled  as  St.  Paul's  Cathedral.  *  Whereas,' 
says  he,  '  Mr.  Clennam  might  now  believe,  if  I  entertained 
his  proposition,  that  I  had  a  sinister  and  designing  motive 
in  what  was  open  free  speech.  Which  I  can't  bear/  says  he, 
*  which  I  really  am  too  proud  to  bear.  " 

"  I  should  as  soon  suspect " 

"  Of  course  you  would,"  interrupted  Mr.  Meagles,  **  and 
so  I  told  him.  But  it  took  a  morning  to  scale  that  wall  ; 
and  I  doubt  if  any  other  man  than  myself  (he  likes  me  of 
old)  could  have  got  his  leg  over  it.  Well,  Clennam.  This 
business-like  obstacle  surmounted,  he  then  stipulated  that 
before  resuming  with  you  I  should  look  over  the  books  and 
form  my  own  opinion.  I  looked  over  the  books,  and  formed 
my  own  opinion.  '  Is  it,  on  the  whole,  for,  or  against  ? '  says 
he.  ^  For,'  says  I.  *  Then,'  says  he,  ^  you  may  now,  my 
good  friend,  give  Mr.  Clennam  the  means  of  forming  his 
opinion.  To  enable  him  to  do  which,  without  bias,  and 
with  perfect  freedom,  I  shall  go  out  of  town  for  a  week.' 
And  he's  gone,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  ;  "  that's  the  rich  con- 
clusion of  the  thing." 

**  Leaving  me,"  said  Clennam,  "  with  a  high  sense,  I  must 
say,  of  his  candor  and  his " 

"  Oddity,"  Mr.  Meagles  struck  in.     "  I  should  think  so  !  " 

It  was  not  exactly  the  word  on  Clennam's  lips,  but  he  for- 
bore to  interrupt  his  good-humored  friend. 

"And  now,"  added  Mr.  Meagles,  "  you  can  begin  to  look 
into  matters  as  soon  as  you  think  proper.  I  have  under- 
taken to  explain  where  you  may  want  explanation,  but  to  be 
strictly  impartial,  and  to  do  nothing  more." 

They  began  their  perquisitions  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard 
that  same  forenoon.  Little  peculiarities  were  easily  to  be 
detected  by  experienced  eyes  in  Mr.  Doyce's  way  of  manag- 
ing his  affairs, -but  they  almost  always  involved  some  ingen- 
ious simplification  of  a  difficulty,  and  some  plain  road  to 
the  desired  end.  That  his  papers  were  in  arrear,  and  that 
he  stood  in  need  of  assistance  to  develop  the  capacity  of 
his  business,  was  clear  enough  ;  but  all  the  results  of  his 
undertakings  during  many  years  were  distinctly  set  forth, 
and  were  ascertainable  with  ease.  Nothing  had  been  done 
for  the  purposes  of  the  pending  investigation  ;  every  thihg 


270  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

was  in  its  genuine  working  dress,  and  in  a  certain  honest 
rugged  order.  The  calculations  and  entries,  in  his  own  hand, 
of  which  there  were  many,  were  bluntly  written,  and  with 
no  very  neat  precision  :  but  were  always  plain,  and  directed 
straight  to  the  purpose.  It  occurred  to  Arthur  that  a  far 
more  elaborate  and  taking  show  of  business — such  as  the 
records  of  the  circumlocution  office  made  perhaps — might 
be  far  less  serviceable,  as  being  meant  to  be  far  less  in- 
telligible. 

Three  or  four  days  of  steady  application  rendered  him 
master  of  all  the  facts  it  was  essential  to  become  acquainted 
with.  Mr.  Meagles  was  at  hand  the  whole  time,  always 
ready  to  illuminate  any  dim  place  with  the  bright  little 
safety-lamp  belonging  to  the  scales  and  scoop.  Between 
them  they  agreed  upon  the  sum  it  would  be  fair  to  offer  for 
the  purchase  of  a  half-share  in  the  business,  and  then  Mr. 
Meagles  unsealed  a  paper  in  which  Daniel  Doyce  had  noted 
the  amount  at  which  he  valued  it ;  which  was  even  some- 
thing less.  Thus  when  Daniel  came  back,  he  found  the 
affair  as  good  as  concluded. 

^'  And  I  may  now  avow,  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  he,  with  .a. 
cordial  shake  of  the  hand,  ^^  that  if  I  had  looked  high  and 
low  for  a  partner,  I  believe  I  could  not  have  found  onis 
more  to  my  mind." 

"  I  say  the  same,"  said  Clennam. 

"And  I  say  of  both  of  you,"  added  Mr.  Meagles,  "  that 
you  are  well  matched.  You  keep  him  in  check,  Clennami, 
with  your  common  sense,  and  you  stick  to  the  works,  Dan, 
with  your — — " 

"  Uncommon  sense  ? "  suggested  Daniel,  with  his  quiet 
smile. 

"  You  may  call  it  so,  if  you  like — and  each  of  you  will  be 
a  right  hand  to  the  other.  Here's  my  own  right  hand  upon 
it,  as  a  practical  man,  to  both  of  you." 

The  purchase  was  completed  within  a  month.  It  left  Ar- 
thur in  possession  of  private  personal  means  not  exceeding 
a  few  hundred  pounds  ;  but  it  opened  to  him  an  active  and 
promising  career.  The  three  friends  dined  together  on  the 
auspicious  occasion  ;  the  factory  and  the  factory  wives  and 
children  made  holiday  and  dined  too  ;  even  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard  dined  and  was  full  of  meat.  Two  months  had  barely 
gone  by  in  all,  when  Bleading  Heart  Yard  had  become  so 
familiar  with  short  commons  again  that  the  treat  was  for- 
gotten there  ;  when  nothing  seemed  new  in  the  partnership 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  271 

but  the  paint  of  the  inscription  on  the  door-posts,  Doyce 
AND  Clennam  ;  when  it  appeared  even  to  Clennam  himself, 
that  he  had  the  affairs  of  the  firm  in  his  mind  for  years. 

The  little  counting-house  reserved  for  his  own  occupa- 
tion, was  a  room  of  wood  and  glass  at  the  end  of  a  long  low 
workshop,  filled  with  benches,  and  vises,  and  tools,  and 
straps,  and  wheels  ;  which,  when  they  were  in  gear  with  the 
steam-engine,  went  tearing  round  as  though  they  had  a  sui- 
cidal mission  to  grind  the  business  to  dust  and  tear  the  fac- 
tory to  pieces.  A  communication  of  great  trap-doors  in  the 
floor  and  roof  with  the  workshop  above  and  the  workshop 
below,  made  a  shaft  of  light  in  this  perspective,  which 
brought  to  Clennam's  mind  the  child's  old  picture-book, 
where  similar  rays  were  the  witness  of  Abel's  murder.  The 
noises  were  sufficiently  removed  and  shut  out  from  the 
counting-house  to  blend  into  a  busy  hum,  interspersed  with 
periodical  clinks  and  thumps.  The  patient  figures  at  work 
were  swarthy  with  the  filings  of  iron  and  steel  that  danced 
on  every 'bench  and  bubbled  up  through  every  chink  in  the 
planking.  The  workshop  was  arrived  at  by  a  step-ladder 
from  the  outer-yard  below,  where  it  served  as  a  shelter  for 
the  large  grindstone  where  tools  were  sharpened.  The  whole 
had  at  once  a  fanciful  and  practical  air  in  Clennam's  eyes, 
which  was  a  welcome  change  ;  and,  as  often  as  he  raised 
them  from  his  first  work  of  getting  the  array  of  business  doc- 
uments into  perfect  order,  he  glanced  at  these  things  with  a 
feeling  of  pleasure  in  his  pursuit  that  was  new  to  him. 

Raising  his  eyes  thus  one  day,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a 
bonnet  laboring  up  the  step-ladder.  The  unusual  apparition 
was  followed  by  another  bonnet.  He  then  preceived  that 
the  first  bonnet  was  on  the  head  of  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  and 
that  the  second  bonnet  was  on  the  head  of  Flora,  who 
seemed  to  have  propelled  her  legacy  up  the  steep  ascent 
with  considerable  difficulty. 

Though  not  alogether  enraptured  at  the  sight  of  these 
visitors,  Clennam  lost  no  time  in  opening  the  counting-house 
door,  and  extracting  them  from  the  workshop  ;  a  rescue 
which  was  rendered  the  more  necessary  by  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  al- 
ready stumbling  over  some  impediment,  and  menacing  steam 
power  as  an  institution  with  a  stony  reticule  she  carried. 

"  Good  gracious,  Arthur — I  should  say  Mr.  Clennam,  far 
more  proper — the  climb  we  have  had  to  get  up  here  and 
however  to  get  down  without  afire-escape  and  Mr.  F.'s  aunt 
slipping  through  the  steps  and  bruised  all  over  and  you  in 


272  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

the  machinery  and  foundry  way  too  only  think,  and  never 
told  us  !  '* 

Thus  Flora,  out  of  breath.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  F/s  aunt 
rubbed  her  esteemed  insteps  with  her  umbrella,  and  vindic- 
tively glared. 

"  Most  unkind  never  to  have  come  back  to  see  us  since 
that  day,  though  naturally  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that 
there  should  be  any  attraction  at  our  house  and  you  were 
much  more  pleasantly  engaged,  that's  pretty  certain,  and  is 
she  fair  or  dark  blue  eyes  or  black  I  wonder,  not  that  I  ex- 
pect that  she  should  be  any  thing  but  a  perfect  contrast  to  me 
in  all  particulars  for  I  am  a  disappointment  as  I  very  well 
know  and  you  are  quite  right  to  be  devoted  no  doubt 
though  what  I  am  saying  Arthur  never  mind  I  hardly  know 
myself  Good  gracious  !  " 

By  this  time  he  had  placed  chairs  for  them  in  the  count- 
ing-house. As  Flora  dropped  into  hers,  she  bestowed  the 
old  look  upon  him. 

*'  And  to  think  of  Doyce  and  Clennam,  and  who  Doyce 
can  be,"  said  Flora  ;  "  delightful  man  no  doubt  and  mar- 
ried perhaps  or  perhaps  a  daughter,  now  has  he  really  ?  then 
one  understands  the  partnership  and  sees  it  all,  don't  tell  me 
any  thing  about  it  for  I  know  I  have  no  claim  to  ask  the 
question  the  golden  chain  that  once  was  forged,  being 
snapped  and  very  proper." 

Flora  put  her  hand  tenderly  on  his,  and  gave  him  another 
of  the  youthful  glances. 

"  Dear  Arthur — force  of  habit,  Mr.  Clennam  every  way 
more  delicate  and  adapted  to  existing  circumstances — I  must 
beg  to  be  excused  for  taking  the  liberty  of  this  intrusion  but 
I  th^ought  I  might  so  far  presume  upon  old  times  forever 
faded  never  more  to  bloom  as  to  call  with  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  to 
congratulate  and  offer  best  wishes,  a  great  deal  superior  to 
China  not  to  be  denied  and  much  nearer  though  higher  up  !  " 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  see  you,"  said  Clennam,  ^^  and  I 
thank  you.  Flora,  very  much  for  your  kind  remembrance." 

^*  More  than  I  can  say  myself  at  any  rate,"  returned  Flora, 
^*  for  I  mighc  have  been  dead  and  buried  twenty  distinct  times 
over,  and  no  doubt  whatever  should  have  been  before  you  had 
genuinely  remembered  me  or  any  thing  like  it  in  spite  of 
which  one  last  remark  I  wish  to  make,  one  last  explanation 
I  wish  to  offer " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Finching,"  Arthur  remonstrated  in  alarm. 

**  Oh,  not  that  disagreeable  name,  say  Flora  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  273 

**  Flora,  is  it  worth  troubling  yourself  afresh  to  enter  into 
explanations  ?  I  assure  you  none  are  needed.  I  am  satisfied 
-T-I  am  perfectly  satisfied." 

A  diversion  was  occasioned  here,  by  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  making 
the  followiing  inexorable  and  awful  statement  : 

*'  There's  mile-stones  on  the  Dover  road  !  " 

With  such  mortal  hostility  toward  the  human  race  did  she 
discharge  this  missile,  that  Clennam  was  quite  at  a  loss  how 
to  defend  himself  ;  the  rather  as  he  had  been  already  per- 
plexed in  his  mind  by  the  honor  of  a  visit  from  this  venerable 
lady,  when  it  wafe  plain  she  held  him  in  the  utmost  abhor- 
rence. He  could  not  but  look  at  her  with  disconcertment,  as 
she  sat  breathing  bitterness  and  scorn,  and  staring  leagues 
away.  Flora,  however,  received  the  remark  as  if  it  had  been 
of  a  most  apposite  and  agreeable  nature  ;  approvingly 
observing  aloud  that  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  had  a  great  deal  of  spirit. 
Stimulated  either  by  this  compliment,  or  by  her  burning 
indignation,  that  illustrious  woman  then  added,  "  Let  him 
meet  it  if  he  can  ! '*  And,  with  a  rigid  movement  of  her 
stony  reticule  (an  appendage  of  great  size,  and  of  a  fossil 
appearance),  indicated  that  Clennam  was  the  unfortunate 
person  at  whom  the  challenge  was  hurled. 

^*One  last  remark,"  resumed  Flora,  **  I  was  going  to  say 
I  wish  to  make  one  last  explanation  I  wish  to  offer,  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt  and  myself  would  not  have  intruded  on  business  hours 
Mr.  F.  having  been  in  business  and  though  the  wine  trade 
still  business  is  equally  business  call  it  what  you  will  and 
business  habi^  are  just  the  same  as  witness  Mr.  F.  himself 
who  had  his  slippers  always  on  the  mat  at  ten  minutes  before 
six  in  the  afternoon  and  his  boots  inside  the  fender  at  ten 
minutes  before  eight  in  the  morning  to  the  moment  in  all 
weathers  light  or  dark — would  not  therefore  have  intruded 
without  a  motive  which  being  kindly  meant  it  may  be  hoped 
will  be  kindly  taken  Arthur,  Mr.  Clennam  far  more  proper, 
even  Doyce  and  Clennam  probably  more  business-like." 

"  Pray  say  nothing  in  the  way  of  apology,"  Arthur  en- 
treated.    '*  You  are  always  welcome.'* 

**  Very  polite  of  you  to  say  so  Arthur — can  not  remember 
Mr.  Clennam  until  the  word  is  out  such  is  the  habit  of  times 
forever  fled,  and  so  true  it  is  that  oft  in  the  stilly  night  ere 
slumber's  chain  has  bound  people  fond  memory  brings  the 
light  of  other  days  around  people — very  polite  but  more 
polite  than  true  I  am  afraid  for  to  go  into  the  machinery 
business  without  so  much  as  sending  a  line  or  a  card  to  papa 


274  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

— I  don't  say  me  though  there  was  a  time  but  that  is  past 
and  stern  reality  has  now  my  gracious  never  mind — does  not 
look  like  it  you  must  confess." 

Even  Flora's  commas  seemed  to  have  fled  on  this  occa- 
sion ;  she  was  so  much  more  disjointed  and  voluble  than  in 
the  preceding  interview. 

*^  Though  indeed,"  she  hurried  on,  *'  nothing  else  is  to  be 
expected  and  why  should  it  be  expected  and  if  it's  not  to  be 
expected  why  should  it  be,  and  I  am  far  from  blaming  you 
or  any  one,  when  your  mamma  and  my  papa  worried  us  to 
death  and  severed  the  golden  bowl — I  mean  bond  but  I  dare 
say  you  know  what  I  mean  and  if  you  don't  you  don't  lose 
much  and  care  just  as  little  I  will  venture  to  add — when  they 
severed  the  golden  bond  that  bound  us  and  threw  us  into  fits 
of  crying  on  the  sofa  nearly  choked  at  least  myself  every 
thing  was  changed  and  in  giving  my  hand  to  Mr.  F.  I  know 
I  did  so  with  my  eyes  open  but  he  was  so  very  unsettled  and 
in  such  low  spirits  that  he  had  distractedly  alluded  to  the 
river  if  not  oil  of  something  from  the  chemist's  and  I  did  it 
for  the  best." 

"  My  good  Flora,  we  settled  that  before.  It  was  all  quite 
right." 

'*  It's  perfectly  clear  you  think  so,"  returned  Flora,  "for 
you  take  it  very  coolly,  if  I  hadn't  known  it  to  be  China  I 
should  have  guessed  myself  the  Polar  regions,  dear  Mr.  Clen- 
nam  you  were  right  however  and  I  can  not  blame  you  but  as 
to  Doyce  and  Clennam  papa's  property  being  about  here  we 
heard  it  from  Pancks  and  but  from  him  we  never  should  have 
heard  one  word  about  it  I  am  satisfied." 

"  No  no,  don't  say  that." 

"  What  nonsense  not  to  say  it  Arthur — Doyce  and  Clen- 
nam— easier  and  less  trying  to  me  than  Mr.  Clennam — when 
I  know  it  and  you  know  it  too  and  can't  deny  it." 

"  But  I  do  deny  it,  Flora.  I  should  soon  have  made  you 
a  friendly  visit." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Flora,  tossing  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  !  "  and  she 
gave  him  another  of  the  old  looks.  **  However  when  Pancks 
told  us  I  made  up  my  mind  that  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  and  I  would 
come  and  call  because  when  papa — which  was  before  that — 
happened  to  mention  her  name  to  me  and  to  say  that  you  were 
interested  in  her  I  said  at  the  moment  good  gracious  why 
not  have  her  here  then  when  there's  any  thing  to  do  instead 
of  putting  it  out." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  275 

"  When  you  say  her,"  observed  Clennam,  by  this  time 
pretty  well  bewildered,  '*  do  you  mean  Mr.  F.'s " 

^*  My  goodness,  Arthur — Doyce  and  Clennam  really  easier 
to  me  with  old  remembrances — who  ever  heard  of  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt  doing  needlework  and  going  out  by  the  day  !  " 

"  Going  out  by  the  day  !  Do  you  speak  of  Little  Dorrit  ? " 

"Why  yes  of  course,"  returned  Flora;  "and  of  all  the 
strangest  names  I  ever  heard  the  strangest,  like  a  place  down 
in  the  country  with  a  turnpike  or  a  favorite  pony  or  a  puppy 
or  a  bird  or  something  from  a  seed-shop  to  be  put  in  a  gar- 
den or  a  flower-pot  and  come  up  speckled." 

"  Then,  Flora,"  said  Arthur,  with  a  sudden  interest  in  the 
conversation,  "  Mr.  Casby  was  so  kind  as  to  mention  Little 
Dorrit  to  you,  was  he  ?     What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"Oh  you  know  what  papa  is,"  rejoined  Flora,  "  and  how 
aggravatingly  he  sits  looking  beautiful  and  turning  his  thumbs 
over  and  over  one  another  till  he  makes  one  giddy  if  one 
keeps  one's  eyes  upon  him,  he  said  when  we  were  talking  of 
you — I  don't  know  who  began  the  subject  Arthur  (Doyce 
and  Clennam)  but  I  am  sure  it  wasn't  me  at  least  I  hope  not 
but  you  really  must  excuse  my  confessing  more  on  that  point." 

"Certainly,"  said  Arthur.     "  By  all  means." 

"  You  are  very  ready,"  pouted  Flora,  coming  to  a  sudden 
stop  in  a  captivating  bashfulness,  "  that  I  must  admit,  papa 
said  you  had  spoken  of  her  in  an  earnest  way  and  I  said 
what  I  have  told  you  and  that's  all." 

"  That's  all  ?  "  said  Arthur,  a  little  disappointed. 

"  Except  that  when  Pancks  .  told  us  of  your  having  em- 
barked in  this  business  and  with  difficulty  persuaded  us  that 
it  was  really  you  I  said  to  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  then  we  would  come 
and  ask  you  if  it  would  be  agreeable  to  all  parties  that  she 
should  be  engaged  at  our  house  when  required  for  I  know 
she  often  goes  to  your  mamma's  and  I  know  that  your  mamma 
has  a  very  touchy  temper  Arthur — Doyce  and  Clennam — or 
I  never  might  have  married  Mr.  F.  and  might  have  been  at 
this  hour  but  I  am  running  into  nonsense." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  you.  Flora,  to  think  of  this." 

Poor  Flora  rejoined  with  a  plain  sincerity  which  became 
her  better  than  her  youngest  glances,  that  she  was  glad  he 
thought  so.  She  said  it  with  so  much  heart,  that  Clennam 
would  have  given  a  great  deal  to  buy  his  old  character  of  her 
on  the  spot,  and  throw  it  and  the  mermaid  away  forever. 

"  I  think,  Flora,"  he  said,  "  that  the  employment  you  can 
give  Little  Dorrit,  and  the  kindness  you  can  show  her -" 


276  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"Yes  and  I  will,"  said  Flora,  quickly. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it — will  be  a  great  assistance  and  support 
to  her.  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  the  right  to  tell  you  what  I 
know  of  her,  for  I  acquired  the  knowledge  confidentially, 
and  under  circumstances  that  bind  me  to  silence.  But  I 
have  an  interest  in  the  little  creature,  and  a  respect  for  her 
that  I  can  not  express  to  you.  Her  life  has  been  one  of  such 
trial  and  devotion,  and  such  quiet  goodness,  as  you  can 
scarcely  imagine.  I  can  hardly  think  of  her,  far  less  speak 
of  her  without  feeling  moved.  Let  that  feeling  represent 
what  I  could  tell  you,  and  commit  her  to  your  friendliness 
with  my  thanks." 

Once  more  he  put  out  his  hand  frankly  to  poor  Flora  ; 
once  more  poor  Flora  couldn't  accept  it  frankly,  found  it 
worth  nothing  openly,  must  make  the  old  intrigue  and  mys- 
tery of  it.  As  much  to  her  own  enjoyment  as  to  his  dismay, 
she  covered  it  with  a  corner  of  her  shawl  as  she  took  it. 
Then,  looking  toward  the  glass  front  of  the  counting-house, 
and  seeing  two  figures  approaching,  she  cried  with  infinite 
relish,  '*  Papa  !  Hush,  Arthur,  for  mercy's  sake  !  "  and  tot- 
tered back  to  her  chair  with  an  amazing  imitation  of  beinig 
in  danger  of  swooning,  in  the  dread  surprise  and  maidenly 
flutter  of  her  spirits. 

The  patriarch,  meanwhile,  came  inanely  beaming  toward 
the  counting-house  in  the  wake  of  Pancks.  Pancks  opened 
the  door  for  him,  towed  him  in,  and  retired  to  his  own  moo.r- 
ings  in  a  corner. 

'' I  heard  from  Flora,"  said  the  patriarch,  with  his  be- 
nevolent smile,  "  that  she  was  coming  to  call,  coming  to  call. 
And  being  out,  I  thought  I'd  come  also,  thought  I'd  come 
also." 

The  benign  wisdom  he  infused  into  this  declaration  (not 
of  itself  profound),  by  means  of  his  blue  eyes,  his  shining 
head,  and  his  long  white  hair,  was  most  impressive.  It 
seemed  worth  putting  down  among  the  noblest  sentiments 
enunciated  by  the  best  of  men.  Also,  when  he  said  to  Clen- 
nam,  seating  himself  in  the  proffered  chair,  ^^And  you  are  in 
a  new  business,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  I  wish  you  well,  sir ;  I 
wish  you  well !  "  he  seemed  to  have  done  benevolent  won- 
ders. 

"  Mrs.  Finching  has  been  telling  me,  sir,"  said  Arthur, 
after  making  his  acknowledgments,  the  relict  of  the  late  Mr. 
F.  meanwhile  protesting,  with  a  gesture,  against  his  use  of 
that  respectable  name,  *^  that  she  hopes  occasionally  to  em- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  277 

ploy  the  young  needle-woman  you  recommended  to  my 
mother.     For  which  I  have  been  thanking  her." 

The  patriarch  turning  his  head  in  a  lumbering  way  toward 
Pancks,  that  assistant  put  up  the  note-book  in  which  he  had 
been  absorbed,  and  took  him  in  tow. 

*'You  didn't  recommend  her,  you  know,"  said  Pancks  ; 
"  how  could  you  ?  You  knew  nothing  about  her,  you  didn't. 
The  name  was  mentioned  to  you,  and  you  passed  it  on. 
That's  whsit  you  did." 

"  Well!  "  said  Clennam,  "  as  she  justifies  any  recommenda- 
tion, it  is  much  the  same  thing." 

"You  are  glad  she  turns  out  well,"  said  Pancks,  "but  it 
wouldn't  have  been  your  fault  if  she  had  turned  out  ill.  The 
credit's  not  yours,  as  it  is,  and  the  blame  wouldn't  have  been 
yours,  as  it  might  have  been.  You  gave  no  guarantee.  You 
know  nothing  about  her." 

"  You  are  not  acquainted,  then,"  said  Arthur,  hazarding  a 
random  question,  "  with  any  of  her  family  ?  " 

"Acquainted  with  any  of  her  family  ? "  returned  Pancks. 
"  How  should  you  be  acquainted  with  any  of  her  family  ? 
You  never  heard  of  'em.  You  can't  be  acquainted  with 
people  you  never  heard  of,  can  you  ?    You  should  think  not!  " 

All  this  time  the  patriarch  sat  serenely  smiling  ;  nodding 
or  shaking  his  head  benevolently,  as  the  case  required. 

"As  to  being  a  reference,"  said  Pancks,  "  you  know  in  a 
general  way,  what  being  a  reference  means.  It's  all  your 
eye,  that  is.  Look  at  your  tenants  down  the  yard,  here. 
They'd  all  be  references  for  one  another,  if  you'd  let  'em. 
What  would  be  the  good  of  letting  'em  ?  It's  no  satisfaction 
to  be  done  by  two  men  instead  of  one.  One's  enough.  A 
person  who  can't  pay,  gets  another  person  who  can't  pay,  to 
guarantee  that  he  can  pay.  Like  a  person  with  two  wooden 
legs,  getting  another  person  with  two  wooden  legs,  to  guar- 
antee that  he  has  got  two  natural  legs.  It  don't  make  either 
of  them  able  to  do  a  walking  match.  And  four  wooden 
legs  are  more  troublesome  to  you  than  two,  when  you  don't 
want  any."  Mr.  Pancks  concluded  by  blowing  off  that  steam 
of  his. 

A  momentary  silence  that  ensued  was  broken  by  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt,  who  had  been  sitting  upright,  in  a  cataleptic  state, 
since  her  last  public  remark.  She  now  underwent  a  violent 
twitch,  calculated  to  produce  a  startling  effect  on  the  nerves 
of  the  uninitiated,  and  with  the  deadliest  animosity  observed  ; 

"  You  can't  make  a  head  and  brains  out  of  a  brass  knob, 


278  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with  nothing  in  it.  You  couldn't  do  it  when  your  Uncle 
George  was  living,  much  less  when  he's  dead." 

Mr.  Pancks  was  not  slow  to  reply,  with  his  usual  calmness, 
"  Indeed,  ma'am  !  Bless  my  soul !  I'm  surprised  to  hear 
it !  "  Despite  his  presence  of  mind,  however,  the  speech  of 
Mr.  F.'s  aunt  produced  a  depressing  effect  on  the  little 
assembly  ;  firstly,  because  it  was  impossible  to  disguise  that 
Clennam's  unoffending  head  was  the  particular  temple 
of  reason  depreciated  ;  and  secondly,  because  nobody  ever 
knew  on  these  occasions  whose  Uncle  George  was  referred 
to,  or  what  spectral  presence  might  be  invoked  under  that 
appellation. 

Therefore  Flora  said,  though  still  not  without  a  certain 
boastfulness  and  triumph  in  her  legacy,  that  Mr.  F.'s  aunt 
was  ^'  very  lively  to-day,  and  she  thought  they  had  better  go." 
But  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  proved  so  lively  as  to  take  the  suggestion 
in  unexpected  dudgeon,  and  declare  that  she  would  not  go  ; 
adding,  with  several  injurious  expressions,  that  if  ''he  " — too 
evidently  meaning  Clennam — wanted  to  get  rid  of  her,  "  let 
him  chuck  her  out  of  winder  ;  "  and  urgently  expressing 
her  desire  to  see  *^  him  "  perform  that  ceremony. 

In  this  dilemma,  Mr.  Pancks,  whose  resources  appeared 
equal  to  any  emergency  in  the  patriarchal  waters,  slipped  on 
his  hat,  slipped  out  at  the  counting-house  door,  and  slipped 
in  again  a  moment  afterward,  with  an  artificial  freshness  upon 
him,  as  if  he  had  been  in  the  country  for  some  weeks.  "  Why, 
bless  my  heart,  ma'am!  "  said  Mr.  Pancks,  rubbing  up  his  hair 
in  great  astonishment,  '*  is  that  you  ?  How  do  you  do^  ma'am  ? 
You  are  looking  charming  to-day!  I  am  delighted  to  see  you. 
Favor  me  with  your  arm,  ma'am  ;  we'll  have  a  little  walk  to- 
gether, you  and  me,  if  you'll  honor  me  with  your  company." 
And  so  escorted  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  down  the  private  staircase  of 
the  counting-house,  with  great  gallantry  and  success.  The 
patriarchal  Mr.  Casby  then  rose  with  the  air  of  having  done 
it  himself,  and  blandly  followed  :  leaving  his  daughter,  as  she 
followed  in  her  turn,  to  remark  to  her  former  lover  in  a  dis- 
tracted whisper  (which  she  very  much  enjoyed),  that  they 
had  drained  the  cup  of  life  to  the  dregs  ;  and  further  to  hint 
mysteriously  that  the  late  Mr.  F.  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Alone  again,  Clennam  became  a  prey  to  his  old  doubts  in 
reference  to  his  mother  and  Little  Dorrit,  and  revolved  the 
old  thoughts  and  suspicions.  They  were  all  in  his  mind, 
blending  themselves  with  the  duties  he  was  mechanically 
discharging,  when  a  shadow  on  his  papers  caused  him  to  look 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  279 

up  for  the  cause.  The  cause  was  Mr.  Pancks.  With  his  hat 
thrown  back  upon  his  ears  as  if  his  wiry  prongs  of  hair  had 
darted  up  like  springs  and  cast  it  off,  with  his  jet-black  beads 
of  eyes  inquisitively  sharp,  with  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
in  his  mouth  that  he  might  bite  the  nails,  and  with  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  in  reserve  in  his  pocket  for  another  course, 
Mr.  Pancks  cast  his  shadow  through  the  glass  upon  the  books 
and  papers. 

Mr.  Pancks  asked,  with  a  little  inquiring  twist  of  his  head, 
if  he  might  come  in  again  ?  Clennam  replied  with  a  nod  of 
his  head  in  the  affirmative.  Mr.  Pancks  worked  his  way  in, 
came  alongside  the  desk,  made  himself  fast  by  leaning  his 
arms  upon  it  and  started  conversation  with  a  puff  and  a 
snort. 

"  Mr.  F/s  aunt  is  appeased,  I  hope,"  said  Clennam. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  Pancks. 

"  I  am  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  awakened  a  strong  ani- 
mosity in  the  breast  of  that  lady,"  said  Clennam.  "  Do  you 
know  why  ?" 

^*  Does  she  know  why  ?'* 

"I  suppose  not." 

"  /  suppose  not,"  said  Pancks. 

He  took  out  his  note-book,  opened  it,  shut  it,  dropped  it 
into  his  hat,  which  was  beside  him  on  the  desk,  and  looked 
in  at  it  as  it  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  hat ;  all  with  a  great 
appearance  of  consideration. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,"  he  then  began.  "  I  am  in  want  of  infor- 
mation, sir." 

**  Connected  with  this  firm  ?"  asked  Clennam. 

**  No,"  said  Pancks. 

"With  w^hat  then,  Mr.  Pancks?  That  is  to  say,  assuming 
that  you  want  it  of  me." 

_  "  Yes,  sir  ;  yes,  I  want  it  of  you,"  said  Pancks,  "  if  I  can 
persuade  you  to  furnish  it.  A,  B,  C,  D.  DA,  DE,  DI,  DO. 
Dictionary  order.     Dorrit.     That's  the  name,  sir?" 

^  Mr.  Pancks  blew  off  his  peculiar  nose  again,  and  fell  to  at 
his  right-hand  nails.  Arthur  looked  searchingly  at  him  ;  he 
returned  the  look. 

**  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Pancks." 

"  That's  the  name  that  I  want  to  know  about." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 
^  "Whatever  you  can  and  will  tell  me."     This  comprehen- 
sive summary  of  his  desires  w\as  not  discharged  w^ithout  some 
heavy  laboring  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pancks's  machinery. 


28o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  This  is  a  singular  visit,  Mr.  Pancks.  It  strikes  me  as 
rather  extraordinary  that  you  should  come,  with  such  an  ob- 
ject, tome." 

*^  It  may  be  all  extraordinary  together,"  returned  Pancks. 
*'  It  may  be  out  of  the  ordinary  course,  and  yet  be  business. 
In  short,  it  is  business.  I  am  a  man  of  business.  What  busi- 
ness have  I  in  this  present  world,  except  to  stick  to  business  ? 
No  business." 

With  his  former  doubt  whether  this  dry  hard  personage 
were  quite  in  earnest,  Clennam  again  turned  his  eyes  atten- 
tively upon  his  face.  It  was  as  scrubby  and  dingy  as  ever, 
and  as  eager  and  quick  as  ever,  and  he  could  see  nothing 
lurking  in  it  that  was  at  all  expressive  of  a  latent  mockery 
that  had  seemed  to  strike  upon  his  ear  in  the  voice. 

"  Now,"  said  Pancks,  "  to  put  this  business  on  its  own 
footing,  it's  not  my  proprietor's." 

"  Do  you  refer  to  Mr.  Casby  as  your  proprietor  ?" 

Pancks  nodded.  "  My  proprietor.  Put  a  case.  Say,  at 
my  proprietor's  I  hear  name — name  of  young  person  Mr. 
Clennam  wants  to  serve.  Say,  name  first  mentioned  to  my 
proprietor  by  Plornish  in  the  yard.  Say,  I  go  to  Plornish. 
Say,  I  ask  Plornish,  as  a  matter  of  business,  for  information. 
Say,  Plornish,  though  six  weeks  in  arrear  to  my  proprietor, 
declines.  Say,  Mrs.  Plornish  declines.  Say,  both  refer  to 
Mr.  Clennam.     Put  the  case." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  Pancks,  "  say  I  come  to  him.  Say, 
here  I  am." 

With  those  prongs  of  hair  sticking  up  all  over  his  head, 
and  his  breath  coming  and  going  very  hard  and  short,  the 
busy  Pancks  fell  back  a  step  (in  tug  metaphor,  took  half  a 
turn  astern)  as  if  to  show  his  dingy  hull  complete,  then  forged 
ahead  again,  and  directed  his  quick  glance  by  turns  into 
his  hat,  where  his  note-book  was,  and  into  Clennam's 
face. 

^^  Mr.  Pancks,  not  to  trespass  on  your  ground  of  mystery, 
I  will  be  as  plain  with  you  as  I  can.  Let  me  ask  two  ques- 
tions.     First " 

"  All  right !  "  said  Pancks,  holding  up  his  dirty  forefinger 
with  his  broken  nail.     ^'  I  see  !  *  What's  your  motive  ?  '  " 

"  Exactly." 

"  Motive,"  said  Pancks,  *^good.  Nothing  to  do  with  my 
proprietor  ;  not  stateable  at  present,  ridiculous  to  state  at 
present  ;  but  good.    Desiring  to  serve  young  person,  name  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  281 

Dorrit,"  said  Pancks,  with  his  forefinger  still  up  as  a  caution. 
"  Better  admit  motive  to  be  good.*"' 

^'  Secondly,  and  lastly,  what  do  you  want  to  know  ?  '* 

Mr.  Pancks  finished  up  his  note-book  before  the  question 
was  put,  and,  buttoning  it  with  care  in  an  inner  breast-pocket, 
and  looking  straight  at  Cknnam  all  the  time,  replied,  with  a 
pause  and  a  puff,  ^*  I  want  supplementary  information  of  any 
sort." 

Clennam  could  not  withhold  a  smile,  as  the  panting  little 
steam-tug,  so  useful  to  that  unwieldy  ship  the  Casby,  waited 
on  and  watched  him,  as  if  it  were  seeking  an 'opportunity  of 
running  in  and  rifling  him  of  all  it  wanted,  before  he  could 
resist  its  maneuvers  ;  though  there  was  that  in  Mr.  Pancks's 
eagerness,  too,  which  awakened  many  wondering  specula- 
tions in  his  mind.  After  a  little  consideration,  he  resolved  to 
supply  Mr.  Pancks  with  such  leading  information  as  it  was  in 
his  power  to  impart  to  him  ;  well  knowing  that  Mr.  Pancks, 
if  he  failed  in  his  present  research,  was  pretty  sure  to  find 
other  means  of  getting  it. 

He,  therefore,  first  requesting  Mr.  Pancks  to  remember 
his  voluntary  declaration  that  his  proprietor  had  no  part  in 
the  disclosure,  and  that  his  own  intentions  were  good  (two 
declarations  which  that  coaly  little  gentleman  with  the  great- 
est ardor  repeated),  openly  told  him  that  as  to  the  Dorrit  line- 
age or  former  place  of  habitation,  he  had  no  information  to 
communicate,  and  that  his  knowledge  of  the  family  did  not 
extend  beyond  the  fact  that  it  appeared  to  be  now  reduced 
to  five  members  ;  namely,  to  two  brothers,  of  whom  one  was 
single,  and  one  a  widower  with  three  children.  The  ages  of 
the  whole  family  he  made  known  to  Mr.  Pancks,  as  nearly  as 
he  could  guess  at  them  ;  and  finally  he  described  to  him  the 
position  of  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea,  and  the  course  of 
time  and  events  through  which  he  had  become  invested  with 
that  character.  To  all  this,  Mr.  Pancks,  snorting  and  blow- 
ing in  a  more  and  more  portentous  manner  as  he  became 
more  interested,  listened  with  great  attention  ;  appearing  to 
derive  the  most  agreeable  sensations  from  the  painfulest  parts 
of  the  narrative,  and  particularly  to  be  quite  charmed  by  the 
account  of  William  Dorrit's  long  imprisonment. 

*'  In  conclusion,  Mr.  Pancks,"  said  Arthur,  "  I  have  but 
to  say  this.  I  have  reasons,  beyond  a  personal  regard,  for 
speaking  as  little  as  I  can  of  the  Dorrit  family,  particularly  at 
my  mother's  house  "  (Mr.  Pancks  nodded),  "and  for  knowing 
as  much  as  I  can.  So  devoted  a  man  of  business  as  you  are 
—eh  1 " 


282  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

For  Mr.  Pancks  had  suddenly  made  the  blowing  effort 
with  unusual  force. 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Pancks. 

"  So  devoted  a  man  of  business  as  yourself  has  a  perfect 
understanding  of  a  fair  bargain.  I  wish  to  make  a  fair 
bargain  with  you,  that  you  shall  enlighten  me  concerning  the 
Dorrit  family  when  you  have  it  in  your  power,  as  I  have 
enlightened  you.  It  may  not  give  you  a  very  flattering  idea 
of  my  business  habits,  that  I  failed  to  make  my  terms  before- 
hand," continued  Clennam;  "but  I  preferred  to  make  them  a 
point  of  honor.,  I  have  seen  so  much  business  done  on  sharp 
principles  that,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mr.  Pancks,  I  am  tired 
of  them." 

Mr.  Pancks  laughed.  *^  It's  a  bargain,  sir,*'  said  he.  "  You 
shall  find  me  stick  to  it." 

After  that  he  stood  a  little  while  looking  at  Clennam,  and 
biting  his  ten  nails  all  around  ;  evidently  while  he  fixed  in  his 
mind  what  he  had  been  told,  and  went  over  it  carefully  before 
the  means  of  supplying  a  gap  in  his  memory  should  be  no 
longer  at  hand.  "  It's  all  right,"  he  said  at  last,  "  and  now  I 
wish  you  good  day,  as  it  is  collecting  day  in  the  yard.  By- 
the-by,  though.     A  lame  foreigner  with  a  stick." 

"  Ay,  ay.  You  do  take  a  reference  sometimes,  I  see  ?  " 
said  Clennam. 

"  When  he  can  pay,  sir,"  replied  Pancks.  **  Take  all  you 
can  get,  and  keep  back  all  you  can't  be  forced  to  give  up. 
That's  business.  The  lame  foreigner  with  the  stick  wants  a 
top  room  down  in  the  yard.     Is  he  good  for  it  ?" 

"  I  am,"  said  Clennam,  "and  I  will  answer  for  him." 

"  That's  enough.  What  I  must  have  of  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard,"  said  Pancks,  making  a  note  of  the  case  in  his  book, 
"  is  my  bond.  I  want  my  bond,  you  see.  Pay  up,  or  pro- 
duce your  property  !  That's  the  watch-word  down  the  yard. 
The  lame  foreigner  with  the  stick  represented  that  you  sent 
him  ;  but  he  could  represent  (as  far  as  that  goes)  that  the 
great  mogul  sent  him.  He  has  been  in  the  hospital,  I 
believe  ?" 

"Yes.  Through  having  met  with  an  accident.  He  is 
only  just  now  discharged." 

"  It's  pauperizing  a  man,  sir,  I  have  been  shown,  to  let 
him  into  a  hospital  ?  "  said  Pancks.  And  again  blew  off 
that  remarkable  sound. 

"  I  have  been  shown  so  too,"  said  Clennam,  coldly. 

Mr.  Pancks,  being  by  that  time  quite  ready  for  a  start, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  283 

got  undei  steam  in  a  moment,  and,  without  any  other  signal 
or  ceremony,  was  snorting  down  the  step-ladder  and  work- 
ing into  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  before  he  seemed  to  be  well 
out  of  the  counting-house. 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard  was  in  consternation,  as  the  grim  Pancks  cruised  in 
it  ;  haranguing  the  inhabitants  on  their  back-slidings  in 
respect  of  payment,  demanding  his  bond,  breathing  notices 
to  quit  and  executions  running  down  defaulters,  sending  a 
swell  of  terror  on  before  him,  and  leaving  it  in  his  wake. 
Knots  of  people,  impelled  by  a  fatal  attraction,  lurked  out- 
side any  house  in  which  he  was  known  to  be,  listening  for 
fragments  of  his  discourses  to  the  inmates  ;  and,  when  he  was 
rumored  to  be  coming  down  the  stairs,  often  could  not  dis- 
perse so  quickly  but  that  he  would  be  prematurely  in  among 
them,  demanding  their  own  arrears,  and  rooting  them  to  the 
spot.  Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day,  Mr.  Pancks's 
What  were  they  up  to  ?  and  what  did  they  mean  by  it  ? 
sounded  all  over  the  yard.  Mr.  Pancks  wouldn't  hear  of 
excuses,  wouldn't  hear  of  complaints,  wouldn't  hear  of  re- 
pairs, wouldn't  hear  of  any  thing  but  unconditional  money 
down.  Perspiring  and  puffing  and  darting  about  in  eccen- 
tric directions,  and  becoming  hotter  and  dingier  every 
moment,  he  lashed  the  tide  of  the  yard  into  a  most  agitated 
and  turbid  state.  It  had  not  settled  down  into  calm  water 
again,  full  two  hours  after  he  had  been  seen  fuming  away  on 
the  horizon  at  the  top  of  the  steps. 

There  were  several  small  assemblages  of  the  Bleeding 
Hearts'  at  the  popular  points  of  meeting  in  the  yard  that 
night,  among  whom  it  was  universally  agreed  that  Mr.  Pancks 
was  a  hard  man  to  have  to  do  with  ;  and  that  it  was  much  to 
be  regretted,  so  it  was,  that  a  gentleman  like  Mr.  Casby 
should  put  his  rents  in  his  hands,  and  never  knew  him  in  his 
true  light.  For  (said  the  Bleeding  Hearts),  if  a  gentleman 
with  that  head  of  hair  and  them  eyes  took  his  rents  into  his 
own  hands,  ma'am,  there  would  be  none  of  this  wor- 
riting and  wearing,  and  things  would  be  very  differ- 
ent. 

At  which  identical  evening  hour  and  minute,  the  patriarch 
— who  had  floated  serenely  through  the  yard  in  the  fore- 
noon before  the  harrying  began,  with  the  express  design  of 
getting  up  this  trustfulness  in  his  shining  bumps  and  silken 
locks — at  which  identical  hour  and  minute,  that  flrst-rate 
humbug  of  a  thousand  guns  was  heavily  floundering  in  the 


284  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

little  dock  of  his  exhausted  tug  at  home,  and  was  saying  as 
he  turned  his  thumbs  : 

*'  A  very  bad  day's  work,  Pancks,  very  bad  day's  work. 
It  seems  to  me,  sir,  and  I  must  insist  on  making  the  obser- 
vation forcibly,  in  justice  to  myself,  that  you  ought  to  have 
got  much  more  money,  much  more  money." 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Little  Dorrit  received  a  call  that  same  evening  from  Mr. 
Plornish,  who,  having  intimated  that  he  wished  to  speak  to 
her,  privately,  in  a  series  of  coughs  so  very  noticeable  as  to 
favor  the  idea  that  her  father,  as  regarded  her  seamstress 
occupation,  was  an  illustration  of  the  axiom  that  there  are  no 
such  stone-blind  men  as  those  who  will  not  see,  obtained  an 
audience  with  her  on  the  common  staircase  outside  the  door. 

*'  There's  been  a  lady  at  our  place  to-day.  Miss 
Dorrit,"  Plornish  growled,  "and  another  one  along  with  her 
as  is  a  old  wixen  if  ever  I  met  with  such.  The  way  she 
snapped  a  person's  head  off,  dear  me  !  " 

The  mild  Plornish  was  at  first  quite  unable  to  get  his  mind 
away  from  Mr.  F.'s  aunt.  "For,"  said  he,  to  excuse  himself, 
"  she  is,  I  do  assure  you,  the  winegariest  party." 

At  length,  by  a  great  effort,  he  detached  himself  from  the 
subject  sufficiently  to  observe: 

"  But  she's  neither  here  nor  there  just  at  present.  The 
other  lady,  she's  Mr.  Casby's  daughter;  and  if  Mr.  Casby 
ain't  well  off,  none  better,  it  ain't  through  any  fault  of  Pancks. 
For  as  to  Pancks,  he  does,  he  really  does,  he  does  indeed  !  " 

Mr.  Plornish,  after  his  usual  manner,  was  a  little  obscure, 
but  conscientiously  emphatic. 

"  And  what  she  come  to  our  place  for,"  he  pursued,  "  was 
to  leave  word  that  if  Miss  Dorrit  would  step  up  to  that  card 
— which  it's  Mr.  Casby's  house  that  is,  and  Pancks  he  has  a 
office  at  the  back,  where  he  really  does,  beyond  belief — she 
would  be  glad  for  to  engage  her.  She  was  a  old  and  dear 
friend,  she  said  particular,  of  Mr.  Clennam,  and  hoped  for  to 
prove  herself  a  useful  friend  to  his  friend.  Them  was  her 
words.  Wishing  to  know  whether  Miss  Dorrit  could  come 
to-morrow  morning,  I  said  I  would  see  you,  miss,  and  inquire 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  285 

and  look  round  there  to-night,  to  say  yes,  or,  if  you  was  en- 
gaged to-morrow,  when." 

"  I  can  go  to-morrow,  thank  you,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 
"  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  you  are  always  kind." 

Mr.  Plornish,  with  a  modest  disavowal  of  his  merits, 
opened  the  door  for  her  re-admission,  and  followed  her 
in  with  such  an  exceedingly  bald  pretense  of  not  having  been 
out  at  all,  that  her  father  might  have  observed  it  without 
being  very  suspicious.  In  his  affable  unconsciousness,  how- 
ever he  took  no  heed.  Plornish,  after  a  little  conversation, 
in  which  ke  blended  his  former  duty  as  a  collegian  with  his 
present  privilege  as  a  humble  outside  friend,  qualified  again 
by  his  low  estate  as  a  plasterer,  took  his  leave;  making  the 
tour  of  the  prison  before  he  left,  and  looking  on  at  a  game  of 
skittles,  with  the  mixed  feelings  of  an  old  inhabitant  who 
had  his  private  reasons  for  believing  that  it  might  be  his 
destiny  to  come  back  again. 

Early  in  the  morning,  Little  Dorrit,  leaving  Maggy  in  high 
domestic  trust,  set  off  for  the  patriarchal  tent.  She  went  by 
the  Iron  Bridge,  though  it  cost  her  a  penny,  and  walked  more 
slowly  in  that  part  of  her  journey  than  in  any  other.  At  five 
minutes  before  eight,  her  hand  was  on  the  patriarchal 
knocker,  which  was  quite  as  high  as  she  could  reach. 

She  gave  Mrs.  Finching's  card  to  the  young  woman  who 
opened  the  door,  and  the  young  woman  told  her  that  '^  Miss 
Flora" — Flora  having,  on  her  return  to  the  parental  roof,  re- 
invested herself  with  the  title  under  which  she  had  lived  there 
— was  not  yet  out  of  her  bedroom,  but  she  was  to  please  to 
walk  up  into  Miss  Flora's  sitting-room.  She  walked  up  into 
Miss  Flora's  sitting-room,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  there  found 
a  breakfast-table  comfortably  laid  for  two,  with  a  supplement- 
ary tray  upon  it  laid  for  one.  The  young  w^oman,  disappear- 
ing for  a  few  moments,  returned  to  say  that  she  was  to  please 
to  take  a  chair  by  the  fire,  and  to  take  oif  her  bonnet,  and 
make  herself  at  home.  But  Little  Dorrit,  being  bashful,  and 
not  used  to  make  herself  at  home  on  such  occasions,  felt  at  a 
loss  how  to  do  it;  so  she  was  still  sitting  near  the  door  with 
her  bonnet  on,  when  Flora  came  in  in  a  hurry  half-an-hour 
afterward. 

Flora  was  so  sorry  to  have  kept  her  waiting,  and  good 
gracious  why  did  she  sit  out  there  in  the  cold  when  she  had 
expected  to  find  her  by  the  fire  reading  the  paper,  and  hadn't 
that  heedless  girl  given  her  the  message  then,  and  had  she 
really  been  in  her  bonnet  all  this  time,  and  pray  for  goodness 


286  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

sake  let  Flora  take  it  off  !  Flora  taking  it  off  in  the  best- 
natured  manner  in  the  world,  was  so  struck  with  the  face 
disclosed,  that  she  said,  "  Why,  what  a  good  little  thing  you 
are,  my  dear  !  "  and  pressed  the  face  between  her  hands  like 
the  gentlest  of  women. 

It  was  the  word  and  the  action  of  a  moment.  Little  Dorrit 
had  hardly  time  to  think  how  kind  it  was,  when  Flora  dashed 
at  the  breakfast-table,  full  of  business,  and  plunged  over  head 
and  ears  into  loquacity. 

^'  Really  so  sorry  that  I  should  happen  to  be  late  on  this 
morning  of  all  mornings  because  my  intention  and  my  wish 
was  to  be  ready  to  meet  you  when  you  came  in  and  to  say 
that  any  one  that  interested  Arthur  Clennam  half  so  much 
must  interest  me  and  that  I  gave  you  the  heartiest  welcome 
and  was  so  glad,  instead  of  which  they  never  called  me  and 
there  I  still  am  snoring  I  dare  say  if  the  truth  was  known 
and  if  you  don't  like  either  cold  fowl  or  hot  boiled  ham 
which  many  people  don't  I  dare  say  besides  Jews  and  theirs 
■are  scruples  of  conscience  which  we  must  all  respect  though 
I  must  say  I  wish  they  had  them  equally  strong  when  they 
sell  us  false  articles  for  real  that  certainly  ain't  worth  the 
money  I  shall  be  quite  vexed,"  said  Flora. 

Little  Dorrit  thanked  her,  and  said,  shyly,  bread-and-butter 
and  tea  was  all  she  usually 

^^  Oh  nonsense  my  dear  child  I  can  never  hear  of  that," 
said  Flora,  turning  on  the  urn  in  the  most  reckless  manner, 
and  making  herself  wink  by  splashing  hot  water  into  her 
eyes  as  she  bent  down  to  look  into  the  tea-pot.  "  You  are 
come  here  on  the  footing  of  a  friend  and  companion  you 
know  if  you  will  let  me  take  that  liberty,  and  I  should  be 
ashamed  of  myself  indeed  if  you  could  come  here  upon  any 
other,  besides  which  Arthur  Clennam  spoke  in  such  terms 
— you  are  tired,  my  dear." 

*^No,  ma'am." 

*'  You  turn  so  pale;  you  have  walked  too  far  before  break- 
fast, and  I  dare  say  live  a  great  way  off  and  ought  to  have 
had  a  ride,"  said  Flora.  **  Dear,  dear,  is  there  any  thing 
that  would  do  you  good  ?  " 

*^  Indeed  I  am  quite  well,  ma'am.  I  thank  you  again  and 
again,  but  I  am  quite  well." 

"  Then  take  your  tea  at  once  I  beg,"  said  Flora,  '*  and 
this  wing  of  fowl  and  bit  of  ham;  don't  mind  me  or  wait  for 
me  because  I  always  carry  in  this  tray  myself  to  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt,  who  breakfasts  in  bed   and  a  charming  old  lady  too 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  287 

and  very  clever.  Portrait  of  Mr.  F.  behind  the  door  and 
very  like  though  too  much  forehead  and  as  to  a  pillar  with 
a  marble  pavement  and  balustrades  and  a  mountain  I  never 
saw  him  near  it  nor  not  likely  in  the  wine  trade,  excellent 
man  but  not  at  all  in  that  way." 

Little  Dorrit  glanced  at  the  portrait,  very  imperfectly 
following  the  references  to  that  work  of  art. 

^'  Mr.  F.  was  so  devoted  to  me  that  he  never  could  bear 
me  out  of  his  sight,"  said  Flora,  '^  though  of  course  I  am 
unable  to  say  how  long  that  might  have  lasted  if  he  hadn't 
been  cut  short  when  I  was  a  new  broom,  worthy  man  but 
not  poetical  manly  prose  but  not  romance." 

Little  Dorrit  glanced  at  the  portrait  again.  The  artist 
had  given  it  a  head  that  would  have  been,  in  an  intellectual 
point  of  view,  top-heavy  for  Shakespeare. 

^'  Romance,  however,"  Flora  went  on,  busily  arranging 
Mr.  F.'s  aunt's  toast,  ^'  as  I  openly  said  to  Mr.  F.  when  he 
proposed  to  me  and  you  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he 
proposed  seven  times  once  in  a  hackney-coach  once  in  a 
boat  once  in  a  pew  once  on  a  donkey  at  Tunbridge  Wells 
and  the  rest  on  his  knees,  romance  was  fled  with  the  early 
days  of  Arthur  Clennam,  our  parents  tore  us  asunder  we 
became  marble  and  stern  reality  usurped  the  throne,  Mr.  F. 
said  very  much  to  his  credit  that  he  was  perfectly  aware  of 
it  and  even  preferred  that  state  of  things  accordingly  the 
word  was  spoken  the  fiat  went  forth  and  such  is  life  you 
see  my  dear  and  yet  we  do  not  break  but  bend,  pray  make  a 
good  breakfast  while  I  go  in  with  the  tray." 

She  disappeared,  leaving  Little  Dorrit  to  ponder  over  the 
meaning  of  her  scattered  words.  She  soon  came  back 
again;  and  at  last  began  to  take  her  own  breakfast,  talking 
all  the  while. 

'*  You  see  my  dear,"  said  Flora,  measuring  out  a  spoonful 
or  two  of  some  brown  liquid  that  smelled  like  brandy,  and 
putting  it  into  her  tea,  ^'  I  am  obliged  to  be  careful  to  follow 
the  directions  of  my  medical  man  though  the  flavor  is  any 
thing  but  agreeable  being  a  poor  creature  and  it  may  be 
have  never  recovered  the  shock  received  in  youth  from  too 
much  giving  way  to  crying  in  the  next  room  when  separated 
from  Arthur,  have  you  known  him  long  ? " 

As  soon  as  Little  Dorrit  comprehended  that  she  had 
been  asked  this  question — for  which  time  was  necessary, 
the  galloping  pace  of  her  new  patroness  having  left  her  far 


288  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

behind — she  answered  that  she  had  known  Mr.  Clennam 
ever  since  his  return. 

"  To  be  sure  you  couldn't  have  known  him  before  unless 
you  had  been  in  China  or  had  corresponded  neither  of  which 
is  likely,"  returned  Flora,  '^  for  traveling-people  usually  get 
more  or  less  mahogany  and  you  are  not  at  all  so  and  as  to 
corresponding  what  about  ?  that's  very  true  unless  tea,  so  it 
was  at  his  mother's  was  it  really  that  you  knew  him  first, 
highly  sensible  and  firm  but  dreadfully  severe — ought  to  be 
the  mother  of  the  man  in  the  iron  mask." 

"  Mrs.  Clennam  has  been  kind  to  me,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Really  ?  I  am  sure  I  am  glad  to  hear  it  because  as 
Arthur's  mother  it's  naturally  pleasant  to  my  feeling  to  have 
a  better  opinion  of  her  than  I  had  before,  though  what  she 
thinks  of  me  when  I  run  on  as  I  am  certain  to  do  and  she 
sits  glowering  at  me  like  fate  in  a  go-cart — shocking  com- 
parison really — invalid  and  not  her  fault — I  never  know  or 
can  imagine." 

*^  Shall  I  find  my  work  anywhere,  ma'am  ?  "  asked  Little 
Dorrit,  looking  timidly  about;  "  can  I  get  it?" 

^^  You  industrious  little  fairy,"  returned  Flora  taking,  in 
another  cup  of  tea,  another  of  the  doses  prescribed  by  her 
medical  man,  ^^there's  not  the  slightest  hurry  and  it's  better 
that  we  should  begin  by  being  confidential  about  our  mutual 
friend — too  cold  a  word  for  me  at  least,  I  don't  mean  that, 
very  proper  expression  mutual  friend — than  become  through 
mere  formalities  not  you  but  me  like  the  Spartan  boy  with 
the  fox  biting  him,  which  I  hope  you'll  excuse  my  bringing 
up  for  of  all  the  tiresome  boys  that  will  go  tumbling  into 
every  sort  of  company  that  boy's  the  tiresomest." 

Little  Dorrit,  her  face  very  pale,  sat  down  again  to  listen. 
**  Hadn't  I  better  work  the  while  ? "  she  asked.  *'  I  can  work 
and  attend  to.     I  would  rather,  if  I  may." 

Her  earnestness  was  so  expressive  of  her  being  uneasy 
without  her  work,  that  Flora  answered,  ^^  Well  my  dear, 
whatever  you  like  best,"  and  produced  a  basket  of  white 
handkerchiefs.  Little  Dorrit  gladly  put  it  by  her  side,  took 
out  her  little  pocket-housewife,  threaded  her  needle  and 
began  to  hem. 

**  What  nimble  fingers  you  have,"  said  Flora,  *'  but  are  you 
sure  you  are  well  ?  " 

''  Oh  yes,  indeed  !  " 

Flora  put  hejr  feet  upon  the  fender,  and  settled  herself  for 
a  thorough  good  romantic  disclosure.     She  started  off  at 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  289 

score,  tossing  her  head,  sighing  in  the  most  demonstrative 
manner,  making  a  great  deal  of  use  of  her  eyebrows,  and 
occasionally  but  not  often,  glancing  at  the  quiet  face  that 
bent  over  the  work. 

''  You  must  know,  my  dear,"  said  Flora,  "  but  that  I 
have  no  doubt  you  know  already  not  only  because  I  have 
already  thrown  it  out  in  a  general  way  but  because  I  feel 
I  carry  it  stamped  in  burning  what's-his-names  upon  my 
brow  that  before  I  was  introduced  to  the  late  Mr.  F.  I  had 
been  engaged  to  Arthur  Clennam — Mr.  Clennam  in  public 
where  reserve  is  necessary  Arthur  here — we  were  all  in  all 
to  one  another  it  was  the  morning  of  life  it  was  bliss  it  was 
frenzy  it  was  every  thing  else  of  that  sort  in  the  highest 
degree,  when  rent  asunder  we  turned  to  stone  in  which  capa- 
city Arthur  went  to  China  and  I  became  the  statue  bride  of 
the  late  Mr.  F." 

Flora,  uttering  these  words  in  a  deep  voice,  enjoyed  her- 
self immensely. 

"  To  paint,"  said  she,  **  the  emotions  of  that  morning 
when  all  was  marble  within  and  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  followed  in  a 
glass  coach  which  it  stands  to  reason  must  have  been  in 
shameful  repair  or  it  never  could  have  broken  down  two 
streets  from  the  house  and  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  brought  home  like 
the  fifth  of  November  in  a  rush-bottomed  chair  I  will  not 
attempt,  suffice  it  is  to  say  that  the  hollow  form  of  break- 
fast took  place  in  the  dining-room  down  stairs  that  papa 
partaking  too  freely  of  pickled  salmon  was  ill  for  weeks  and 
that  Mr.  F.  and  myself  went  upon  a  continental  tour  to 
Calais  where  the  people  fought  for  us  on  the  pier  until  they 
separated  us  though  not  forever  that  was  not  yet  to  be." 

The  statue  bride,  hardly  pausing  for  breath,  went  on, 
with  the  greatest  complacency,  in  a  rambling  manner,  some- 
times incidental  to  flesh  and  blood. 

"  I  will  draw  a  veil  over  that  dreamy  life,  Mr.  F.  was  in 
good  spirits  his  appetite  was  good  he  liked  the  cookery  he 
considered  the  wine  weak  but  palatable  and  all  was  well,  we 
returned  to  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  number  thirty 
Little  Gosling  Street  London  Docks  and  settled  down,  ere  we 
had  yet  fully  detected  the  housemaid  in  selling  the  feathers 
out  of  the  spare  bed  gout  flying  upward  soared  with  Mr.  F. 
to  another  sphere." 

His  relict,  with  a  glance  at  his  portrait,  shook  her  head 
and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  I  revere  the  memory  of  Mr.  F.  as  an  estimable  man  and 


290  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

most  indulgent  husband,  only  necessary  to  mention  aspara- 
gus and  it  appeared  or  to  hint  at  any  little  delicate  thing  to 
drink  and  it  came  like  magic  in  a  pint  bottle  it  was  not 
ecstasy  but  it  was  comfort,  I  returned  to  papa's  roof  and 
lived  secluded  if  not  happy  during  some  years  until  one 
day  papa  came  smoothly  blundering  in  and  said  that  Arthur 
Clennam  awaited  me  below,  I  went  below  and  found  him 
ask  me  not  what  I  found  him  except  that  he  was  still  unmar- 
ried still  unchanged  !  " 

The  dark  mystery  with  which  Flora  now  enshrouded  her- 
self might  have  stopped  other  fingers  than  the  nimble  fin- 
gers that  worked  near  her.  They  worked  on,  without  pause, 
and  the  busy  head  bent  over  them  watching  the  stitches. 

^'  Ask  me  not,"  said  Flora,  ''  if  I  love  him  still  or  if  he 
still  loves  me  or  what  the  end  is  to  be  or  when,  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  watchful  eyes  and  it  may  be  that  we  are  des- 
tined to  pine  asunder  it  may  be  never  more  to  be  reunited 
not  a  word  not  a  breath  not  a  look  to  betray  us  all  must  be 
secret  as  the  tomb  wonder  not  therefore  that  even  if  I  should 
seem  comparatively  cold  to  Arthur  or  Arthur  should  seem 
comparatively  cold  to  me  we  have  fatal  reasons  it  is  enough 
if  we  understand  them  hush  !  " 

All  of  which  Flora  said  with  so  much  headlong  vehemence 
as  if  she  really  believed  it.  There  is  not  much  doubt,  that 
when  she  worked  herself  into  full  mermaid  condition,  she 
did  actually  believe  whatever  she  said  in  it. 

^'  Hush  !  "  repeated  Flora,  "  I  have  now  told  you  all,  con- 
fidence is  established  between  us  hush,  for  Arthur's  sake  I 
will  always  be  a  friend  to  you,  my  dear  girl,  and  in  Arthur's 
name  you  may  always  rely  upon  me." 

The  nimble  fingers  laid  aside  the  work,  and  the  little 
figure  rose  and  kissed  her  hand.  '*  You  are  very  cold,"  said 
Flora,  changing  to  her  own  natural  kind-hearted  manner, 
and  gaining  greatly  by  the  change.  **  Don't  work  to-day.  I 
am  sure  you  are  not  well,  I  am  sure  you  are  not  strong," 

"  It  is  only  that  I  feel  a  little  overcome  by  your  kindness, 
and  by  Mr.  Clennam's  kindness  in  confiding  me  to  one  he 
has  known  and  loved  so  long." 

"  Well,  really,  my  dear,"  said  Flora,  who  had  a  decided 
tendency  to  be  always  honest  when  she  gave  herself  time  to 
think  about  it,  *'  it's  as  well  to  leave  that  alone  now,  for  I 
couldn't  undertake  to  say  after  all,  but  it  doesn't  signify  lie 
down  a  little  !  " 

"  I  have  always  been  strong  enough  to  do  what  I  want  to 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  291 

do,  and  I  shall  be  quite  well  directly,'*  returned  Little  Dorriv, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  You  have  overpowered  me  with  grati- 
tude, that's  all.  If  I  keep  near  the  window  for  a  moment  I 
shall  be  quite  myself. 

Flora  opened  a  window,  sat  her  in  a  chair  by  it,  and  con- 
siderately retired  to  her  former  place.  It  was  a  windy  day, 
and  the  air  stirring  on  Little  Dorrit's  face  soon  brightened  it. 
In  a  very  few  minutes  she  returned  to  her  basket  of  work, 
and  her  nimble  fingers  were  as  nimble  as  ever. 

Quietly  pursuing  her  task,  she  asked  Flora  if  Mr.  Clen- 
nam  had  told  her  where  she  lived  ?  When  Flora  replied  in 
the  negative.  Little  Dorrit  said  that  she  understood  why  he 
had  been  so  delicate,  but  that  she  felt  sure  he  would  ap- 
prove of  her  confiding  her  secret  to  Flora,  and  that  she  would 
therefore  do  so  now  with  Flora's  permission.  Receiving  an 
encouraging  answer,  she  condensed  the  narrative  of  her  life 
into  a  few  scanty  words  about  herself,  and  a  glowing  eulogy 
upon  her  father;  and  Flora  took  it  all  in  with  a  natural  ten- 
derness that  quite  understood  it,  and  in  which  there  was  no 
incoherence. 

When  dinner-time  came.  Flora  drew  the  arm  of  her  new 
charge  through  hers,  and  led  her  down  stairs,  and  presented 
her  to  the  patriarch  and  Mr.  Pancks,  who  were  already  in 
the  dining-room  waiting  to  begin.  (Mr.  F.'s  aunt  was,  for 
the  time,  laid  up  in  ordinary  in  her  chamber.)  By  those  gen- 
tlemen she  was  received  according  to  their  characters;  the 
patriarch  appearing  to  do  her  some  inestimable  service  in 
saying  that  he  was  glad  to  see  her,  glad  to  see  her;  and  Mr. 
Pancks  blowing  off  his  favorite  sound  as  a  salute. 

In  that  new  presence  she  would  have  been  bashful  enough 
under  any  circumstances,  and  particularly  under  Flora's  in- 
sisting on  her  drinking  a  glass  of  wine  and  eating  of  the  best 
that  was  there;  but  her  constraint  was  greatly  increased  by 
Mr.  Pancks.  The  demeanor  of  that  gentleman  at  first  sug- 
gested to  her  mind  that  he  might  be  a  taker  of  likenesses,  so 
intently  did  he  look  at  her,  and  so  frequently  did  he  glance 
at  the  little  note-book  by  his  side.  Observing  that  he  made 
no  sketch,  however,  and  that  he  talked  about  business  only, 
she  began  to  have  suspicions  that  he  represented  some 
creditor  of  her  father's,  the  balance  due  to  whom  was  noted 
in  that  pocket  volume.  Regarded  from  this  point  of  view 
Mr.  Pancks's  puffings  expressed  injury  and  impatience,  and 
each  of  his  louder  snorts  became  a  demand  for  payment. 

But,  here  again  she  was  undeceived  by  anomalous  and  in- 


292  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

congruous  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pancks  himself.  She 
had  left  the  table  half-an-hour,  and  was  at  work  alone. 
Flora  had  "  gone  to  lie  down  "  in  the  next  room,  concur- 
rently with  which  retirement  a  smell  of  something  to  drink 
had  broken  out  in  the  house.  The  patriarch  was  fast  asleep, 
with  his  philanthropic  mouth  open,  under  a  yellow  pocket- 
handkerchief  in  the  dining-room.  At  this  quiet  time,  Mr. 
Pancks  softly  appeared  before  her,  urbanely  nodding. 

*'  Find  it  a  little  dull,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  "  inquired  Pancks,  in  a 
low  voice. 

*^  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Busy,  I  see,"  observed  Mr.  Pancks,  stealing  into  the 
room  by  inches.     "  What  are  those  now.  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

"  Handkerchiefs." 

"  Are  they,  though  !  "  said  Pancks.  "  I  shouldn't  have 
thought  it."  Not  in  the  least  looking  at  them,  but  looking 
at  Little  Dorrit.  "  Perhaps  you  wonder  who  I  am.  Shall  I 
tell  you  ?     I  am  a  fortune-teller." 

Little  Dorrit  now  began  to  think  he  was  mad. 

"  I  belong  body  and  soul  to  my  proprietor,"  said  Pancks; 
"  you  saw  my  proprietor  having  his  dinner  below.  But  I  do 
a  little  in  the  other  way,  sometimes;  privately,  very  privately, 
Miss  Dorrit." 

Little  Dorrit  looked  at  him  doubtfully,  and  not  without 
alarm.  "  I  wish  you'd  show  me  the  palm  of  your  hand," 
said  Pancks.  *^  I  should  like  to  have  a  look  at  it.  Don't  let 
me  be  troublesome." 

He  was  so  far  troublesome  that  he  was  not  at  all  wanted 
there,  but  she  laid  her  work  in  her  lap  for  a  moment,  and 
held  out  her  left  hand  with  her  thimble  on  it. 

"  Years  of  toil,  eh  ?  "  said  Pancks,  softly,  touching  it  with 
his  blunt  forefinger.  *^  But  what  else  are  we  made  for  ? 
Nothing.  Halloo  !"  looking  into  the  lines.  '^What's  this 
with  bars  ?  It's  a  college  !  And  what's  this  with  a  gray 
gown  and  a  black  velvet  cap  ?  It's  a  father  !  And  what's 
this  with  a  clarionet  ?  It's  an  uncle  !  And  what's  this  in 
dancing-shoes  ?  It's  a  sister  !  And  what's  this  straggling 
about  in  an  idle  sort  of  a  way  ?  It's  a  brother  !  And 
what's  this  thinking  for  them  all  ?  Why,  this  is  you.  Miss 
Dorrit?" 

Her  eyes  met  his  as  she  looked  up  wonderingly  into  his 
face,  and  she  thought  that  although  his  were  sharp  eyes,  he 
was  a  brighter  and  gentler-looking  man  than  she  had  sup- 
posed at  dinner.     His  eyes  were  on  her  hand  again  directly, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  293 

and  her  opportunity  of  confirming  or  correcting  the  impres- 
sion was  gone. 

'*  Now,  the  deuce  is  in  it,"  muttered  Pancks  tracing  out 
a  line  in  her  hand  with  his  clumsy  finger,  *^  If  this  isn't  me 
in  the  corner  here  ?  What  do  I  want  here  ?  What's  be- 
hind me  ? " 

He  carried  his  finger  slowly  down  to  the  wrist,  and  round 
the  wrist,  and  affected  to  look  at  the  back  of  the  hand  for 
what  was  behind  him. 

"  Is  it  any  harm  ?  "  asked  Little  Dorrit,  smiling. 

^*  Deuce  a  bit  !  "  said  Pancks.  *'  What  do  you  think  it's 
worth  ?  " 

"  I  ought  to  ask  you  that.     I  am  not  the  fortune-teller."  • 

*'  True,"  said  Pancks.  **  What's  it  worth  ?  You  shall  live  to 
see,  Miss  Dorrit." 

Releasing  the  hand  by  slow  degrees,  he  drew  all  his  fingers 
through  his  prongs  of  hair,  so  that  they  stood  up  in  their 
most  portentous  manner  ;  and  repeated  slowly,  ^'  Remember 
what  I  say,  Miss  Dorrit.     You  shall  live  to  see." 

She  could  not  help  showing  that  she  was  much  surprised, 
if  it  were  only  by  his  knowing  so  much  about  her. 

^'  Ah  !  That's  it  !  "  said  Pancks,  pointing  at  her.  "  Miss 
Dorrit,  not  that,  ever  !  " 

More  surprised  than  before,  and  a  little  more  frightened, 
she  looked  to  him  for  an  explanation  of  his  last  words. 

"  Not  that,"  said  Pancks,  making,  with  great  seriousness, 
an  imitation  of  a  surprised  look  and  manner,  that  appeared 
to  be  unintentionally  grotesque.  "  Don't  do  that.  Never  on 
seeing  me,  no  matter  when,  no  matter  where.  I  am  nobody. 
Don't  take  on  to  mind  me.  Don't  mention  me.  Take  no 
notice.     Will  you  agree,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say,"  returned  Little  Dorrit,  quite 
astounded.     ''Why  ?" 

*'  Because  I  am  a  fortune-teller.  Pancks  the  gipsy.  I 
haven't  told  you  so  much  of  your  fortune,  yet.  Miss  Dorrit, 
as  to  tell  you  what's  behind  me  on  that  little  hand.  I 
have  told  you  you  shall  live  to  see.  Is  it  agreed,  Miss 
Dorrit?*' 

*'  Agreed  that  I — am — to — " 

'*  To  take  no  notice  of  me  away  from  here,  unless  I  take 
on  first.  Not  to  mind  me  when  I  come  and  go.  It's  very 
easy.  I  am  no  loss,  I  am  not  handsome,  I  am  not  good  com- 
pany, I  am  only  my  proprietor's  grubber.  You  need  do  no 
more  than  think,  '  Ah!  Pancks  the  gipsy  at  his  fortune-tell- 


294  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ing — he*ll  tell  the  rest  of  my  fortune  one  day — I  shall  live  to 
know  it.'     Is  it  agreed,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

"  Ye-es,"  faltered  Little  Dorrit,  whom  he  greatly  confused, 
"  I  suppose  so,  while  you  do  no  harm." 

^'  Good  !  "  Mr.  Pancks  glanced  at  the  wall  of  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  and  stooped  forward.  "  Honest  creature,  woman 
of  capital  points,  but  heedless  and  a  loose  talker.  Miss  Dor- 
rit." With  that  he  rubbed  his  hands  as  if  the  interview  had 
been  very  satisfactory  to  him,  panted  away  to  the  door,  and 
urbanely  nodded  himself  out  again. 

If  Little  Dorrit  were  beyond  measure  perplexed  by  this 
curious  conduct  on  the  part  of  her  new  acquaintance,  and  by 
finding  herself  involved  in  this  singular  treaty,  her  perplexity 
was  not  diminished  by  ensuing  circumstances.  Besides  that 
Mr.  Pancks  took  every  opportunity  afforded  him  in  Mr. 
Casby's  house  of  significantly  glancing  at  her  and  snorting  at 
her — which  was  not  much,  after  what  he  had  done  already-— 
he  began  to  pervade  her  daily  life.  She  saw  him  in  the  street, 
constantly.  When  she  went  to  Mr.  Casby's  he  was  always 
there.  When  she  went  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  he  came  there  on 
any  pretense,  as  if  to  keep  her  in  his  sight.  A  week  had  not 
gone  by,  when  she  found  him  to  her  astonishment,  in  the 
lodge  one  night,  conversing  with  the  turnkey  on  duty,  and  to 
all  appearance  one  of  his  familiar  companions.  Her  next 
surprise  was  to  find  him  equally  at  his  ease  within  the  prison  ; 
to  hear  of  his  presenting  himself  among  the  visitors  at  her 
father's  Sunday  levee  ;  to  see  him  arm  in  arm  with  a  colle- 
giate friend  about  the  yard  ;  to  learn,  from  fame,  that  he 
had  greatly  distinguished  himself  one  evening  at  the  social 
club  that  held  its  meetings  in  the  Snuggery,  by  addressing  a 
speech  to  the  members  of  that  institution,  singing  a  song, 
and  treating  the  company  to  five  gallons  of  ale — report 
madly  added  a  bushel  of  shrimps.  The  effect  on  Mr. 
Plornish  of  such  of  these  phenomena  as  he  became  an  eye- 
witness of,  in  his  faithful  visits,  made  an  impression  on  Lit- 
tle Dorrit  only  second  to  that  produced  by  the  phenomena 
themselves.  They  seemed  to  gag  and  bind  him.  He  could 
only  stare,  and  sometimes  weakly  mutter  that  it  wouldn't  be 
believed  down  Bleeding  Heart  Yard  that  this  was  Pancks  ; 
but  he  never  said  a  word  more,  or  made  a  sign  more,  even  to 
Little  Dorrit.  Mr.  Pancks  crov/ned  his  mysteries  by  making 
himself  acquainted  with  Tip  in  some  unknown  manner,  and 
taking  a  Sunday  saunter  into  the  college  on  that  gentkman's 
arm.     Throughout  he  never  took  any  notice  of  Little  Dorrit, 


LITTLE  DORRn\  295 

save  once  or  twice  when  he  happened  to  come  close  to  her, 
and  there  was  no  one  very  near  ;  on  which  occasions,  he 
said,  in  passing,  with  a  friendly  look  and  a  puff  of  encourage- 
ment, **  Pancks  the  gipsy — fortune-telling." 

Little  Dorrit  worked  and  strove  as  usual,  wondering  at 
all  this,  but  keeping  her  wonder,  as  she  had  from  her  earliest 
years  kept  many  heavier  loads,  in  her  own  breast.  A  change 
had  stolen,  and  was  stealing  yet,  over  the  patient  heart. 
Every  day  found  her  something  more  retiring  than  the  day 
before.  To  pass  in  and  out  of  the  prison  unnoticed,  and 
elsewhere  to  be  overlooked  and  forgotten,  were,  for  herself, 
her  chief  desires. 

IoJlexo^vn_JX)om_  too,.,  strangely  assorted  room  for  her 
delicate  youth  and  character,  she  was  glad  to  retreat  as  often 
as  she  could  without  any  desertion  of  any  duty.  There  were 
afternoon  times  when  she  was  unemployed,  when  visitors 
dropped  in  to  play  a  hand  at  cards  with  her  father,  when  she 
could  be  spared  and  was  better  away.  Then  she  would  flit 
along  the  yard,  climb  the  scores  of  stairs  that  led  to  her  room, 
and_take  hex^aLjacLJJl^3dadaw^,.J5jJ^^  combinations  did 
those  spikes  upon  the  wall  assume,  many  light  shapes  did 
the  strong  iron  weave  itself  into,  many  golden  touches  fell 
iipon  the  rust,  while  Little  Dorrit  sat  there  musing.  New 
zig-zags  sprung  into  the  cruel  pattern  sometimes,  when  she 
saw  it  through  a  burst  of  tears  ;  but  beautiful  or  hardened 
still,  always  over  it  and  under  it  and  through  it,  she  was  fain 
to  look  in  her  solitude,  seeing  every  thing  with  that  inefface- 
able brand. 

A  gjarret,  and  a  Marshalsea  garret  without  compromise, 
was  Little  Dorrit's  room.  Beautifully  kept,  it  was  ugly  in 
itself,  and  had  little  but  cleanliness  and  air  to  set  it  off  ;  for 
what  embellishment  she  had  ever  been  able  to  buy,  had  gone 
to  her  father's  room.  Howbeit,  for  this  poor  place  she 
showed  an  increasing  love  ;  and  to  sit  in  it  alone  became 
her  favorite  rest. 

Insomuch,  that  on  a  certain  afternoon,  during  the  Pancks 
mysteries,  when  she  was  seated  at  her  window,  and  heard 
Maggy's  well-known  step  coming  up  the  stairs,  she  was  very 
much  disturbed  by  the  apprehension  of  being  summoned 
away.  As  Maggy's  step  came  higher  up  and  nearer,  she 
trembled  and  faltered  ;  and  it  was  as  much  as  she  could  do 
to  speak,  when  Maggy  at  length  appeared. 

"  Please,  little  mother,"  said  Maggy,  panting  for  breath, 
**  you  must  come  down  and  see  him.     He's  here." 


2()6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

''  Who,  Maggy  ?  " 

**  Who,  o'  course  Mr.  Clennam.  He's  in  your  father's 
room,  and  he  says  to  me,  Maggy,  will  you  be  so  kind  and  go 
and  say  it's  only  me." 

*'  I  am  not  very  well,  Maggy.  I  had  better  not  go.  I  am 
going  to  lie  down.  See  !  I  lie  down,  now,  to  ease  my  head. 
Say,  with  my  grateful  regard,  that  you  left  me  so,  or  I  would 
have  come." 

"  Well,  it  ain't  very  polite  though,  little  mother,"  said  the 
staring  Maggy,  "  to  turn  your  face  away,  neither  !  " 

Maggy  was  very  susceptible  to  personal  slights,  and  very 
ingenious  in  inventing  them.  "  Putting  both  your  hands 
afore  your  face  too  !  "  she  went  on.  *^  If  you  can't  bear  the 
looks  of  a  poor  thing,  it  would  be  better  to  tell  her  so  at 
once,  and  not  go  and  shut  her  out  like  that,  hurting  her  feel- 
ings and  breaking  her  heart  at  ten  year  old,  poor  thing  ! " 

"  It's  to  ease  my  head,  Maggy." 

"  Well,  and  if  you  cry  to  ease  your  head,  little  mother, 
let  me  cry  too.  Don't  go  and  have  all  the  crying  to  your- 
self," expostulated  Maggy,  "  that  an't  not  being  greedy.** 
And  immediately  began  to  blubber. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  she  could  be  induced  to 
go  back  with  the  excuse  ;  but  the  promise  of  being  told  a 
story — of  old  her  great  delight — on  condition  that  she  con- 
centrated her  faculties  upon  the  errand  and  left  her  little 
mistress  to  herself  for  an  hour  longer,  combined  with  a  mis- 
giving on  Maggy's  part  that  she  had  left  her  good  temper  at 
the  bottom  of  the  staircase,  prevailed.  So  away  she  went, 
muttering  her  message  all  the  way  to  keep  it  in  her  mind, 
and,  at  the  appointed  time,  came  back. 

"  He  was  very  sorry,  I  can  tell  you,"  she  announced, 
"  and  wanted  to  send  a  doctor.  And  he's  coming  again 
to-morrow  he  is,  and  I  don't  think  he'll  have  a  good  sleep 
to-night  along  o'  hearing  about  your  head,  little  mother. 
Oh  my  !     Ain't  you  been  a-crying  !  " 

"  I  think  I  have,  a  little,  Maggy." 

''  A  little  !     Oh  !  " 

"  But  it's  all  over  now — all  over  for  good,  Maggy.  And 
my  head  is  much  better  and  cooler,  and  I  am  quite  comfort- 
able.    I  am  very  glad  I  did  not  go  down." 

Her  great  staring  child  tenderly  embraced  her  ;  and  hav- 
ing smoothed  her  hair,  and  bathed  her  forehead  and  eyes 
with  cold  water  (offices  in  which  her  awkward  hands  became 
skillful),  hugged  her  again,  exulted  in  her  brighter  looks,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  297 

stationed  her  in  her  chair  by  the  window.  Over  against  this 
chair,  Maggy,  with  apoplectic  exertions  that  were  not  at  all 
required,  dragged  the  box  which  was  her  seat  on  story-telling 
occasions,  sat  down  upon  it,  hugged  her  own  knees,  and  said 
with  a  voracious  appetite  for  stories,  and  with  widely-opened 
eyes  : 

*'  Now,  little  mother,  let's  have  a  good  'un  !  " 

"  What  shall  it  be  about,  Maggy  ?  " 

'*  Oh,  let's  have  a  princess,"  said  Maggy,  "  and  let  her  be 
a  reg'lar  one.     Beyond  all  belief,  you  know  !  " 

Little  Dorrit  considered  for  a  moment  ;  and  with  a  rather 
sad  smile  upon  her  face,  which  was  flushed  by  the  sunset,  ' 
began  : 

"  Maggy,  there  was  once  upon  a  time  a  fine  king,  and  he 
had  every  thing  he  could  wish  for,  and  a  great  deal  more. 
He  had  gold  and  silver,  diamonds  and  rubies,  riches  of  every 
kind.     He  had  palaces,  and  he  had -" 

**  Hospitals,"  interposed  Maggy,  still  nursing  her  knees. 
*'  Let  him  have  hospitals,  because  they're  so  comfortable. 
Hospitals  with  lots  of  chicking." 

*'  Yes,  he  had  plenty  of  them,  and  he  had  plenty  of  every 
thing." 

**  Plenty  of  baked  potatoes,  for  instance  ?  "  said  Maggy. 

"  Plenty  of  every  thing." 

*^  Lor  !  "  chuckled  Maggy,  giving  her  knees  a  hug. 
'*  Wasn't  it  prime  !  " 

"  This  king  had  a  daughter,  who  was  the  wisest  and  most 
beautiful  princess  that  ever  was  seen.  When  she  was  a  child 
she  understood  all  her  lessons  before  her  master  taught  them 
to  her  ;  and  when  she  was  grown  up,  she  was  the  wonder  of 
the  world.  Now,  near  the  palace  where  this  princess  lived, 
there  was  a  cottage  in  which  there  was  a  poor  little  tiny 
woman,^who  lived  all  alone  by  herself." 

**  A  old  woman,"  said  Maggy,  with  an  unctuous  smack  of 
her  lips. 

"  No,  not  an  old  woman.     Quite  a  young  one.'* 

**  I  wonder  she  warn't  afraid,"  said  Maggy.  "Go  on, 
please." 

"  The  princess  passed  the  cottage  nearly  every  day,  and 
whenever  she  went  by  in  her  beautiful  carriage,  she  saw  the 
poor  tiny  woman  spinning  at  her  wheel,  and  she  looked  at  the 
tiny  woman,-  and  the  tiny  woman  looked  at  her.  So,  one  day 
she  stopped  the  coachman  a  little  way  from  the  cottage,  and 
got  out  and  walked   on  and  peeped   in   at   the   door,  and 


298  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

there,  as  usual,  was  the  tiny  woman  spinning  at  her  wheels 
and  she  looked  at  the  princess,  and  the  princess  looked  at 
her/' 

"  Like  trying  to  stare  one  another  out,"  said  Maggy. 
"  Please  go  on,  little  mother." 

"  The  princess  was  such  a  wonderful  princess  that  she 
had  the  power  of  knowing  secrets,  and  she  said  to  the  tiny 
woman,  why  do  you  keep  it  there  ?  This  showed  her  directly 
that  the  princess  knew  why  she  lived  all  alone  by  herself 
spinning  at  her  wheel,  and  she  kneeled  down  at  the  princess's 
feet,  and  ask  her  never  to  betray  her.  So,  the  princess 
said,  I  never  will  betray  you.  Let  me  see  it.  So,  the  tiny 
woman  closed  the  shutter  of  the  cottage  window  and  fastened 
the  door,  and  trembling  from  head  to  foot  for  fear  that  any 
one  should  suspect  her,  opened  a  very  secret  place,  and 
showed  the  princess  a  shadow." 

"  Lor  !  "  said  Maggy. 

"  It  was  the  shadow  of  some  one  who  had  gone  by  long 
before  :  of  some  one  who  had  gone  on  far  away  quite  out  of 
reach,  never,  never  to  come  back.  It  was  bright  to  look  at; 
and  when  the  tiny  woman  showed  it  to  the  princess,  she  was 
proud  of  it  with  all  her  heart  as  a  great,  great  treasure.  When 
the  princess  had  considered  it  a  little  while,  she  said  to  the 
tiny  woman,  and  you  keep  watch  over  this,  every  day  ?  And 
she  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  whispered,  Yes.  Then  the 
princess  said,  remind  me  why.  To  which  the  other  replied, 
that  no  one  so  good  and  kind  had  ever  passed  that  way, 
and  that  was  why  in  the  beginning.  She  said,  too,  that 
nobody  missed  it,  that  nobody  was  the  worse  for  it,  that 
some  one  had  gone  on  to  those  who  were  expecting  him " 

"  Some  one  was  a  man,  then  ?  "  interposed  Maggy. 

Little  Dorrit  timidly  said  yes,  she  believed  so  ;  and 
resumed  : 

" — Had  gone  on  to  those  who  were  expecting  him,  and 
that  this  remembrance  was  stolen  or  kept  back  from  nobody. 
The  princess  made  answer,  ah  !  But  when  the  cottager 
died  it  would  be  discovered  there.  The  tiny  woman  told 
her  no  ;  when  that  time  came,  it  would  sink  quietly  into 
her  own  grave,  and  would  never  be  found." 

*'  Well,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Maggy.  .  ^'  Go  on,  please." 

"  The  princess  was  very  much  astonished  to  hear  this,  as 
you  may  suppose,  Maggy." 

(^' And  well  she  might  be,"  said  Maggy.) 

"  So  she  resolved  to  watch  the  tiny  woman,  and   see  what 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  299 

came  of  it.  Every  day,  she  drove  in  her  beautiful  carriage 
by  the  cottage-door,  and  there  she  saw  the  tiny  woman 
always  alone  by  herself  spinning  at  her  wheel,  and  she 
looked  at  the  tiny  woman,  and  the  tiny  woman  looked  at 
her.  At  last  one  day  the  wheel  was  still,  and  the  tiny 
woman  was  not  to  be  seen.  When  the  princess  made 
inquiries  why  the  wheel  had  stopped,  and  where  the  tiny 
woman  was,  she  was  informed  that  the  wheel  had  stopped, 
because  there  was  nobody  to  turn  it,  the  tiny  woman  being 
dead." 

(*^  They  ought  to  have  took  her  to  the  hospital,"  said 
Maggy,  "  and  then  she'd  have  got  over  it.") 

**  The  princess,  after  crying  a  very  little  for  the  loss  of 
the  tiny  woman,  dried  her  eyes  and  got  out  of  her  carriage 
at  the  place  where  she  had  stopped  it  before,  and  went  to 
the  cottage  and  peeped  in  at  the  door.  There  was  nobody 
to  look  at  her  now,  and  nobody  for  her  to  look  at,  so  she 
went  in  at  once  to  search  for  the  treasured  shadow.  But 
there  was  no  sign  of  it  to  be  found  anywhere  ;  and  then 
she  knew  that  the  tiny  woman  had  told  her  the  truth,  and 
that  it  would  never  give  any  body  any  trouble,  and  that  it 
had  sunk  quietly  into  her  own  grave  and  that  she  and  it 
were  at  rest  together." 

"  That's  all,  Maggy." 

The  sunset  flush  was  so  bright  on  Little  Dorrit's  face 
when  she  came  thus  to  the  end  of  her  story,  that  she  inter- 
posed her  hand  to  shade  it. 

"  Had  she  got  to  be  old  ? "  Maggy  asked. 

"  The  tiny  woman  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Little  Dorrit.  "  But  it  would  have 
been  just  the  same,  if  she  had  been  ever  and  ever  so 
old." 

"  Would  it  raly  !  "  said  Maggy.  "  Well,  I  suppose  it 
would  though."     And  sat  staring  and  ruminating. 

She  sat  so  long  with  her  eyes  wide  open,  that  at  length 
Little  Dorrit,  to  entice  her  from  her  box,  rose  and  looked  out 
of  window.  As  she  glanced  down  into  the  yard,  she  saw 
Pancks  come  in,  and  leer  up  with  the  corner  of  his  eye  as  he 
went  by. 

^*  Who's  he,  little  mother  ?  "  said  Maggy.  She  had  joined 
her  at  the  window  and  was  leaning  on  her  shoulder.  "  I 
see  him  come  in  and  out  often." 

^*  I  have  heard  him  called  a  fortune-teller,"    said  Little 


300  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Dorrit.  "  But  I  doubt  if  he  could  tell  many  people,  even 
their  present  or  past  fortunes." 

*^  Couldn't  have  told  the  princess  hers  ?  "  said  Maggy. 

Little  Dorrit,  looking  musingly  down  into  the  dark  valley 
of  the  prison,  shook  her  head. 

^'  Nor  the  tiny  woman  hers  ?  "  said  Maggy. 

'*  No,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  with  the  sunset  very  bright  upon 
her.     *'  But  let  us  come  away  from  the  window.'* 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

CONSPIRATORS   AND    OTHERS. 

The  private  residence  of  Mr.  Pancks  was  in  Pentonville, 
where  he  lodged  on  the  second-floor  of  a  professional  gentle- 
man in  an  extremely  small  way,  who  had  an  inner-door 
within  the  street  door,  poised  on  a  spring  and  starting  open 
with  a  click  like  a  trap  ;  and  who  wrote  up  in  the  fan-light, 
RuGG,  General  Agent,  Accountant,  Debts  Recovered. 

This  scroll,  majestic  in  its  severe  simplicity,  illuminated  a 
little  slip  of  front  garden  abutting  on  the  thirsty  high  road, 
where  a  few  of  the  dustiest  of  leaves  hung  their  dismal  heads 
and  led  a  life  of  choking.  A  professor  of  writing  occupied 
the  first-floor,  and  enlivened  the  garden  railings  with  glass- 
cases  containing  choice  examples  of  what  his  pupils  had 
been  before  six  lessons  and  while  the  whole  of  his  young 
family  shook  the  table,  and  what  they  had  become  after  six 
lessons  when  the  young  family  was  under  restraint.  The 
tenancy  of  Mr.  Pancks  was  limited  to  one  airy  bed-room  ; 
he  covenanting  and  agreeing  with  Mr.  Rugg,  his  landlord, 
that  in  consideration  of  a  certain  scale  of  payments  ac- 
curately defined,  and  on  certain  verbal  notice  duly  given, 
he  should  be  at  liberty  to  elect  to  share  the  Sunday  break- 
fast, dinner,  tea,  or  supper,  or  each  or  any  or  all  of  those 
repasts  or  meals  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Rugg  (his  daughter)  in  the 
back  parlor. 

Miss  Rugg  was  a  lady  of  a  little  property,  which  she  had 
acquired,  together  with  much  distinction  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, by  having  her  heart  severely  lacerated  and  her  feel- 
ings mangled  by  a  middle-aged  baker,  resident  in  the 
vicinity,  against  whom  she  had,  by  the  agency  of  Mr.  Rugg, 
found  it  necessary  to  proceed  at  law  to  recover  damages  for 
a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage.     The  baker  having  been, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  301 

by  the  counsel  for  Miss  Rugg,  witheringly  denounced  on 
that  occasion  up  to  the  full  amount  of  twenty  guineas,  at 
the  rate  of  about  eighteen- pence  an  epithet,  and  having  been 
cast  in  corresponding  damages,  still  suffered  occasional  per- 
secution from  the  youth  of  Pentonville.  But  Miss  Rugg, 
environed  by  the  majesty  of  the  law,  and  having  her 
damages  invested  in  the  public  securities,  was  regarded 
with  consideration.  « 

In  the  society  of  Mr.  Rugg,  who  had  a  round  white 
visage,  as  if  all  his  blushes  had  been  drawn  out  of  him  long 
ago,  and  who  had  a  ragged  yellow  head  like  a  worn-out 
hearth-broom  ;  and  the  society  of  Miss  Rugg,  who  had  little 
nankeen  spots,  like  shirt  buttons,  all  over  her  face,  and 
whose  own  yellow  tresses  were  rather  scrubby  than  lux- 
uriant ;  Mr.  Pancks  had  usually  dined  on  Sundays  for  some 
few  years,  and  had  twice  a  week,  or  so,  enjoyed  an  evening 
collation  of  bread,  Dutch  cheese,  and  porter.  Mr.  Pancks 
was  one  of  the  very  few  marriageable  men  for  whom  Miss 
Rugg  had  no  terrors,  the  argument  with  which  he  reassured 
himself  being  twofold  ;  that  is  to  say,  firstly,  ^'that  it 
wouldn't  "do  twice,"  and  secondly,  ^'  that  he  wasn't  worth 
it."  Fortified  within  this  double  armor,  Mr.  Pancks  snorted 
at  Miss  Rugg  on  easy  terms. 

Up  to  this  time,  Mr.  Pancks  had  transacted  little  or  no 
business  at  his  quarters  in  Pentonville,  except  in  the  sleep- 
ing line  ;  but,  now  that  he  had  become  a  fortune-teller,  he 
was  often  closeted  after  midnight  with  Mr.  Rugg  in  his  little 
front-parlor  office,  and  even  after  those  untimely  hours, 
burned  tallow  in  his  bed-room.  Though  his  duties  as  his 
proprietor's  grubber  were  in  no  wise  lessened  ;  and  though 
that  service  bore  no  greater  resemblance  to  a  bed  of  roses 
than  was  to  be  discovered  in  its  many  thorns  ;  some  new 
branch  of  industry  made  a  constant  demand  upon  him. 
When  he  cast  off  the  patriarch  at  night,  it  was  only  to  take 
an  anonymous  craft  in  tow,  and  labor  away  afresh  in  other 
waters. 

The  advance  from  a  personal  acquaintance  with  the  elder 
Mr.  Chivery,  to  an  introduction  to  his  amiable  wife  and  dis- 
consolate son,  may  have  been  easy  ;  but  easy  or  not,  Mr. 
Pancks  soon  made  it.  He  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the  to- 
bacco business  within  a  week  or  two  after  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  college,  and  particularly  addressed  himself  to 
the  cultivation  of  a  good  understanding  with  young  John. 
In  this  endeavor  he  so  prospered  as  to  lure  that  pining  shep- 


{02  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

herd  forth  from  the  groves,  and  tempt  him  to  undertake 
mysterious  missions  ;  on  which  he  began  to  disappear  at  un- 
certain intervals  for  as  long  a  space  as  two  or  three  days 
together.  The  prudent  Mrs.  Chivery,  who  wondered  greatly 
at  this  change,  would  have  protested  against  it  as  detri- 
mental to  the  Highland  typification  on  the  door-post,  but  for 
two  forcible  reasons  ;  one,  that  her  John  was  roused  to  take 
strong  interest  in  the  business  which  these  starts  were  sup- 
posed to  advance — and  this  she  held  to  be  good  for  his 
drooping  spirits  ;  the  other,  that  Mr.  Pancks  confidentially 
agreed  to  pay  her,  for  the  occupation  of  her  son's  time,  at  the 
handsome  rate  of  seven-and-sixpence  per  day.  The  pro- 
posal originated  with  himself,  and  was  crouched  in  the  pithy 
terms  ^'  If  your  John  is  weak  enough,  ma'am,  not  to  take  it, 
that  is  no  reason  why  you  should  be,  don't  you  see  ?  So, 
quite  between  ourselves,  ma'am,  business  being  business, 
here  it  is  !  " 

What  Mr.  Chivery  thought  of  these  things,  or  how  much 
or  how  little  he  knew  about  them,  was  never  gathered  from 
himself.  It  has  been  already  remarked  that  he  was  a  man  of 
few  words  ;  and  it  may  be  here  observed,  that  he  had  imbibed 
a  professional  habit  of  locking  every  thing  up.  He  locked 
himself  up  as  carefully  as  he  locked  up  the  Marshalsea  debt- 
ors. Even  his  custom  of  bolting  his  meals  may  have  been  a 
part  of  an  uniform  whole;  but  there  is  no  question,  that,  as 
to  all  other  purposes,  he  kept  his  mouth  as  he  kept  the  Mar- 
shalsea door.  He  never  opened  it  without  occasion.  When 
it  was  necessary  to  let  any  thing  out,  he  opened  it  a  little  way, 
held  it  open  just  as  long  as  sufficed  for  the  purpose,  and 
locked  it  again.  Even  as  he  would  be  sparing  of  his  trouble 
at  the  Marshalsea  door,  and  would  keep  a  visitor  who  wanted 
to  go  out,  waiting  for  a  few  moments  if  he  saw  another  visitor 
coming  down  the  yard,  so  that  one  turn  of  the  key  should 
suffice  for  both,  similarly  he  would  often  reserve  a  remark  if 
he  perceived  another  on  its  way  to  his  lips,  and  would  deliver 
himself  of  the  two  together.  As  to  any  key  to  his  inner 
knowledge  being  to  be  found  in  his  face,  the  Marshalsea  key 
was  as  legible  an  index  to  the  individual  characters  and 
histories  upon  which  it  was  turned. 

That  Mr.  Pancks  should  be  moved  to  invite  any  one  to 
dinner  at  Pentonville,  was  an  unprecedented  fact  in  his  cal- 
endar. But  he  invited  young  John  to  dinner,  and  even 
brought  him  within  range  of  the  dangerous  (because  expen- 
sive) fascinations  of  Miss  Rugg.    The  banquet  was  appointed 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  303 

for  a  Sunday,  and  Miss  Rugg  with  her  own  hands  stuffed  a 
leg  of  mutton  with  oysters  on  the  occasion  and  sent  it  to  the 
baker's — not  the  baker's,  but  an  opposition  establishment. 
Provision  of  oranges,  apples,  and  nuts  was  also  made.  And 
rum  was  brought  home  by  Mr.  Pancks  on  Saturday  night,  to 
gladden  the  visitor.'s  heart. 

The  store  of  creature  comforts  was  not  the  chief  part  of  the 
visitor's  reception.  Its  special  feature  was  a  foregone  family 
confidence  and  sympathy.  When  young  John  appeared  at 
half-past  one,  without  the  ivory  hand  and  waistcoat  of  golden 
sprigs,  the  sun  shorn  of  his  beams  by  disastrous  clouds,  Mr. 
Pancks  presented  him  to  the  yellow-haired  Ruggs  as  the 
young  man  he  had  so  often  mentioned  who  loved  Miss  Dorrit. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  challenging  him  specially  in 
that  character,  "  to  have  the  distinguished  gratification  of 
making  your  acquaintance,  sir.  Your  feelings  do  you  honor. 
You  are  young;  may  you  never  outlive  your  feelings  !  If  I 
was  to  outlive  my  own  feelings,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  who  was 
a  man  of  many  words,  and  was  considered  to  possess  a  re- 
markably good  address;  "  if  I  was  to  outlive  my  own  feel- 
ings, I'd  leave  fifty  pound  in  my  will  to  the  man  who  would 
put  me  out  of  existence." 

Miss  Rugg  heaved  a  sigh. 

*'  My  daughter,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg.  "  Anastatia,  you  are 
no  stranger  to  the  state  of  this  young  man's  affections.  My 
daughter  has  had  her  trials,  sir,"  Mr.  Rugg  might  have  used 
the  word  more  pointedly  in  the  singular  number,  ^*  and  she 
can  feel  for  you." 

Young  John,  almost  overwhelmed  by  the  touching  nature 
of  this  greeting,  professed  himself  to  that  effect. 

"  What  I  envy  you,  sir,  is,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  "  allow  me  to 
take  your  hat — we  are  rather  short  of  pegs — I'll  put  it  in  the 
corner,  nobody  will  tread  in  it  there — What  I  envy  you,  sir, 
is  the  luxury  of  your  own  feelings.  I  belong  to  a  profession 
in  which  that  luxury  is  sometimes  denied  us." 

Young  John  replied,  with  acknowledgments,  that  he  only 
hoped  he  did  what  was  right,  and  what  showed  how  entirely 
he  was  devoted  to  Miss  Dorrit.  He  wished  to  be  unselfish; 
and  he  hoped  he  was.  He  wished  to  do  any  thing  as  laid  in 
his  power  to  serve  Miss  Dorrit,  altogether  putting  himself 
out  of  sight;  and  he  hoped  he  did.  It  was  but  little  that  he 
could  do,  but  he  hoped  he  did  it. 

"  Sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  "  you  are 
a  young  man  that  it  does  one  good  to  come  across.     You  are 


304  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

a  young  man  that  I  should  like  to  put  in  the  witness-box,  to 
humanize  the  minds  of  the  legal  profession.  I  hope  you 
have  brought  your  appetite  with  you  and  intend  to  play  a 
good  knife  and  fork  ?*' 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  young  John,  "  I  don't  eat 
much  at  present.'* 

Mr.  Rugg  drew  him  a  little  apart.  "  My  daughter's  case, 
sir,"  said  he,  *^  at  the  time  when  in  vindication  of  her  out- 
raged feelings  and  her  sex,  she  became  the  plaintiff  in  Rugg 
and  Hawkins.  I  suppose  I  could  have  put  it  in  evidence, 
Mr.  Chivery,  if  I  had  thought  it  worth  my  while,  that  the 
amount  of  solid  sustenance  my  daughter  consumed  at  that 
period  did  not  exceed  ten  ounces  per  week." 

*^  I  think  I  go  a  little  beyond  that,  sir,"  returned  the  other, 
hesitating,  as  if  he  confessed  it  with  some  shame. 

*^  But  in  your  case  there's  no  fiend  in  human  form,"  said 
Mr.  Rugg,  with  argumentative  smile  and  action  of  hand. 
*'  Observe,  Mr.  Chivery  !     No  fiend  in  human  form  !  " 

"No,  sir,  certainly,"  young  John  added  with  simplicity, 
"  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  there  was." 

"  The  sentiment,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  "  is  what  I  should  have 
expected  from  your  own  principles.  It  would  affect  my 
daughter  greatly,  sir,  if  she  heard  it.  As  I  perceive  the  mut- 
ton, I  am  glad  she  didn't  hear  it.  Mr.  Pancks,  on  this  occa- 
sion, pray  face  me.  My  dear,  face  Mr.  Chivery.  For  what 
we  are  going  to  receive,  may  we  (and  Miss  Dorrit)  be  truly 
thankful  !  " 

But  for  a  grave  waggishness  in  Mr.  Rugg's  manner  of 
delivering  this  introduction  to  the  feast,  it  might  have 
appeared  that  Miss  Dorrit  was  expected  to  be  one  of  the 
company.  Pancks  recognized  the  sally  in  his  usual  way,  and 
took  in  his  provender  in  his  usual  way.  Miss  Rugg,  perhaps 
making  up  some  of  her  arrears,  likewise  took  very  kindly  to 
the  mutton,  and  it  rapidly  diminished  to  the  bone.  A  bread- 
and-butter  pudding  entirely  disappeared,  and  a  considerable 
amount  of  cheese  and  radishes  vanished  by  the  same  means. 
Then  came  the  dessert. 

Then  also,  and  before  the  broaching  of  the  rum  and 
water,  came  Mr.  Pancks's  note-book.  The  ensuing  business 
proceedings  were  brief  but  curious,  and  rather  in  the  nature 
of  a  conspiracy.  Mr.  Pancks  looked  over  his  note-book 
which  was  now  getting  full,  studiously;  and  picked  out  little 
extracts,  which  he  wrote  on  separate  slips  of  paper  on  the 
table;  Mr.    Rugg,  in    the  meanwhile,  looking  at  him  with 


LITTLE  DORRrr. 


30s 


close  attention,  and  young  John  losing  his  uncollected  eye 
in  mists  of  meditation.  When  Mr.  Pancks,  who  supported 
the  character  of  chief  conspirator,  had  completed  his  extracts, 
he  looked  them  over,  corrected  them,  put  up  his  note-book, 
and  held  them  like  a  hand  at  cards. 

''  Now,  there's  a  churchyard  in  Bedfordshire,"  said  Pancks. 
"Who  takes  it?" 

"  I'll  take  it,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Rugg,  "  if  no  one  bids." 

Mr.  Pancks  dealt  him  his  card,  and  looked  at  his  hand 
again. 

"  Now,  there's  an  inquiry  in  York,"  said  Pancks.  "  Who 
takes  it  ?  " 

**  I'm  not  good  for  York,"  said  Mr.  Rugg. 

"Then  perhaps,"  pursued  Pancks,  "you'll  be  so  obliging, 
John  Chivery  ?  "  Young  John  assenting,  Pancks  dealt  him 
his  card,  and  consulted  his  hand  again. 

"  There's  a  church  in  London;  I  may  as  well  take  that 
And  a  family  Bible;  I  may  as  well  take  that,  too.  That'is 
two  to  me.  Two  to  me,"  repeated  Pancks  breathing  hard! 
over  his  cards.  "  Here's  a  clerk  at  Durham  for  you,  John, 
and  an  old  seafaring  gentleman  at  Dunstable  for  you,  Mr, 
Rugg.  Two  to  me,  was  it  ?  Yes,  two  to  me.  Here's  a 
stone;  three  to  me.  And  a  still-born  baby;  four  to  me. 
And  all,  for  the  present  told." 

When  he  had  thus  disposed  of  his  cards,  all  being  done 
very  quietly  and  in  a  suppressed  tone,  Mr.  Pancks  puffed  his 
way  into  his  own  breast-pocket  and  tugged  out  a  canvas  bag; 
from  which,  with  a  sparing  hand,  he  told  forth  money  for 
traveling  expenses  in  two  little  portions.  "  Cash  goes  out 
fast,"  he  said  anxiously,  as  he  pushed  a  portion  to  each  of 
his  male  companions,  "  very  fast." 

"  I  can  only  assure  you,  Mr.  Pancks,"  said  young  John, 
"  that  I  deeply  regret  my  circumstances  being  such  that  I 
can't  afford  to  pay  my  own  charges,  or  that  it's  not  advisable 
to  allow  me  the  time  necessary  for  my  doing  the  distances  on 
foot.  Because  nothing  would  give  me  greater  satisfaction 
than  to  walk  myself  off  my  legs  without  fee  or  reward." 

This  young  man's  disinterestedness  appeared  so  very 
ludicrous  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  Rugg,  that  she  was  obliged  to 
effect  a  precipitate  retirement  from  the  company,  and  to  sit 
upon  the  stairs  until  she  had  had  her  laugh  out.  Meanwhile, 
Mr.  Pancks,  looking,  not  without  some  pity,  at  young  John, 
slowly  and  thoughtfully  twisted  up  his  canvas  bag  as  if  he 
were  wringing  its  neck.     The  lady  returning  as  he  restored 


3o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

it  to  his  pocket,  mixed  rum  and  water  for  the  party,  not  for- 
getting her  fair  self,  and  handed  to  every  one  his  glass. 
When  all  were  supplied,  Mr.  Rugg  rose,  and  silently  holding 
out  his  glass  at  arm's  length  above  the  center  of  the  table, 
by  that  gesture  invited  the  other  three  to  add  theirs,  and 
to  unite  in  a  genera^  conspiratorial  clink.  The  ceremony 
was  effective  up  to  a  certain  point,  and  would  have  been 
wholly  so  throughout,  if  Miss  Rugg,  as  she  raised  her  glass 
to  her  lips  m  completion  of  it,  had  not  happened  to  look  at 
young  John;  when  she  was  again  so  overcome  by  the  con- 
temptible comicality  of  his  disinterestedness,  as  to  splutter 
some  ambrosial  drops  of  rum  and  water  around,  and  with- 
draw in  confusion. 

Such  was  the  dinner  without  precedent,  given  by  Pancks 
at  Pentonville;  and  such  was  the  busy  and  strange  life 
Pancks  led.  The  only  waking  moments  at  which  he 
appeared  to  relax  from  his  cares,  and  to  recreate  himself  by 
going  anywhere  or  saying  any  thing  without  a  pervading 
object,  were  when  he  showed  a  dawning  interest  in  the  lame 
foreigner  with  the  stick,  down  Bleeding  Heart  Yard. 

The  foreigner,  by  name  John  Baptist  Cavalletto — the^ 
called  him  Mr.  Baptist  in  the  yard — was  such  a  chirping, 
easy,  hopeful  little  fellow,  that  his  attraction  for  Pancks  was 
probably  in  the  force  of  contrast.  Solitary,  weak  and  scantily 
acquainted  with  the  most  necessary  words  of  the  only  lan- 
guage in  which  he  could  communicate  with  the  people  about 
him,  he  went  with  the  stream  of  his  fortune^,  in  a  brisk  way 
that  was  new  in  these  parts.  With  little  to  eat,  and  less  to 
drink,  and  nothing  to  wear  but  what  he  wore  upon  him,  or 
had  brought  tied  up  in  one  of  the  smallest  bundles  that  ever 
were  seen,  he  put  as  bright  a  face  upon  it  as  if  he  were  in  the 
most  flourishing  circumstances,  when  he  first  kobbled  up  and 
down  the  yard,  humbly  propitiating  the  general  good- will 
with  his  white  teeth. 

It  was  up-hill  work  for  a  foreigner,  lame  o^  sound,  to  make 
his  way  with  the  Bleeding  Hearts.  In  the  first  place,  they 
were  vaguely  persuaded  that  every  foreigner  had  a  knife 
about  him  ;  in  the  second,  they  held  it  to  be  a  sound  consti- 
tutional national  axiom  that  he  ought  to  go  home  to  his  own 
country.  They  never  thought  of  inquiring  how  many  of  their 
own  countrymen  would  be  returned  upon  their  hands  from 
divers  parts  of  the  world,  if  the  principle  were  generally  recog- 
nized ;  they  considered  it  practically  and  peculiarly  British. 
In  the  third  place,  they  had  a  notion  that  it  was  a  sort  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  307 

Divine  visitation  upon  a  foreigner  that  he  was  not  an  English- 
man, and  that  all  kinds  of  calamities  happened  to  his  country 
because  it  did  things  that  England  did  not,  and  did  not  do 
things  that  England  did.  In  this  belief,  to  be  sure,  they  had 
long  been  carefully  trained  by  the  Barnacles  and  Stiltstalk- 
ings,  who  were  always  proclaiming  to  them,  officially  and  un- 
officially, that  no  country  which  failed  to  submit  itself  to  those 
two  large  families  could  possibly  hope  to  be  under  the  protec- 
tion of  Providence  ;  and  who,  when  they  believed  it,  dis- 
paraged them  in  private  as  the  most  prejudiced  people  under 
the  sun. 

This,  therefore,  might  be  called  a  political  position  of  the 
Bleeding  Hearts  ;  but  they  entertained  other  objections  to 
having  foreigners  in  the  yard.  They  believed  that  foreigners 
were  always  badly  off  ;  and  though  they  were  as  ill  off  them- 
selves as  they  could  desire  to  be,  that  did  not  diminish  the 
force  of  the  objection.  They  believed  that  foreigners  were 
dragooned  and  bayoneted  ;  and  though  they  certainly  got 
their  own  skulls  promptly  fractured  if  they  showed  any  ill- 
humor,  still  it  was  with  a  blunt  instrument,  and  that  didn't 
count.  They  believed  that  foreigners  were  always  immoral  ; 
and  though  they  had  an  occasional  assize  at  home,  and  now 
and  then  a  divorce  case  or  so,  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
They  believed  that  foreigners  had  no  independent  spirit,  as 
never  being  escorted  to  the  poll  in  droves  by  Lord  Decimus 
Tite  Barnacle,  with  colors  flying  and  the  tune  of  Rule  Britan- 
nia playing.  Not  to  be  tedious,  they  had  many  other  beliefs 
of  a  similar  kind. 

Against  these  obstacles,  the  lame  foreigner  with  the  stick 
had  to  make  head  as  well  as  he  could  ;  not  absolutely  single- 
handed,  because  Mr.  Arthur  Clennam  had  recommended  him 
to  the  Plornishes  (he  lived  at  the  top  of  the  same  house),  but 
still  at  heavy  odds.  However,  the  Bleeding  Hearts  were  kind 
hearts  ;  and  when  they  saw  the  little  fellow  cheerily  limping 
about  with  a  good-humored  face,  doing  no  harm,  drawing  no 
knives,  committing  no  outrageous  immoralities,  living  chiefly 
on  farinaceous  and  milk  diet,  and  playing  with  Mrs.  Plornish's 
children  of  an  evening,  they  began  to  think  that  although  he 
could  never  hope  to  be  an  Englishman,  still  it  would  be  hard 
to  visit  that  affliction  on  his  head.  They  began  to  accommo- 
date themselves  to  his  level,  calling  him  "  Mr.  Baptist,"  but 
treating  him  like  a  baby,  and  laughing  immoderately  at  his 
lively  gestures  and  his  childish  English — more  because  he 
didn't  mind  it,  and  laughed  too.    They  spoke  to  him  in  very 


3o8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

loud  voices  as  if  he  were  stone  deaf.  They  constructed  sen- 
tences, by  way  of  teaching  him  the  language  in  its  purity,  such 
as  were  addressed  by  the  savages  to  Captain  Cook,  or  by 
Friday  to  Robinson  Crusoe.  Mrs.  Plornish  was  particularly 
ingenious  in  this  art  ;  and  attained  so  much  celebrity  for  sa)'- 
ing  "Me  ope  you  leg  well  soon,"  that  it  was  considered  in 
the  yard,  but  a  very  short  remove  indeed  from  speaking  Ital- 
ian. Even  Mrs.  Plornish  herself  began  to  think  that  she  had 
a  natural  call  toward  that  language.  As  he  became  more 
popular,  household  objects  were  brought  into  requisition  for 
his  instruction  in  a  copious  vocabulary  ;  and  whenever  he 
appeared  in  the  yard,  ladies  would  fly  out  at  their  doors  cry- 
ing "  Mr.  Baptist — tea-pot  !"  "  Mr.  Baptist — dust-pan  !" 
"Mr.  Baptist — flour-dredger!"  "Mr.  Baptist — coffee-big- 
gin !"  At  the  same  time  exhibiting  those  articles,  and  pene- 
trating him  with  a  sense  of  the  appalling  difficulties  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tongue. 

It  was  in  this  stage  of  his  progress,  and  in  about  the  third 
week  of  his  occupation,  that  Mr.  Pancks's  fancy  became  at- 
tracted by  the  little  man.  Mounting  to  his  attic,  attended  by 
Mrs.  Plornish  as  interpreter,  he  found  Mr.  Baptist  with  no 
furniture  but  his  bed  on  the  ground,  a  table,  and  a  chair, 
carving  with  the  aid  of  a  few  simple  tools,  in  the  blithest  way 
possible. 

"  Now,  old  chap,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  "  pay  up  !  " 

He  had  his  money  ready,  folded  in  a  scrap  of  pape/, 
and  laughingly  handed  it  in;  then  with  a  free  action,  threw 
out  as  many  fingers  of  his  right  hand  as  there  were  shil- 
lings, and  made  a  cut  crosswise  in  the  air  for  an  odd  six- 
pence. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Pancks,  watching  him,  wonderingly. 
"  That's  it,  is  it  ?  You're  a  quick  customer.  It's  all  right. 
I  didn't  expect  to  receive  it,  though." 

Mrs.  Plornish  here  interposed  with  great  condescension, 
and  explained  to  Mr.  Baptist.  "  E  please.  E  glad  get 
money." 

The  little  man  smiled  and  nodded.  His  bright  face 
seemed  uncommonly  attractive  to  Mr.  Pancks.  "  How's  he 
getting  on  in  his  limb  ?"  he  asked  Mrs.  Plornish. 

"  Oh,  he's  a  deal  better,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish.  "  We 
expect  next  week  he'll  be  able  to  leave  off  his  stick 
entirely."  (The  opportunity  being  too  favorable  to  be  lost, 
Mrs.  Plornish  displayed  her  great  accomplishment,  by  ex- 
plaining, with  pardonable  pride,  to  Mr.  Baptist,  "  E  ope  you 
leg  well  soon/*) 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  309 

**  He's  a  merry  fellow,  too,"  said 'Mr.  Pancks,  admiring 
him  as  if  he  were  a  mechanical  toy.     ''  How  does  he  live  ?  " 

**  Why,  sir,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Plornish,  "  he  turns  out  to  have 
quite  a  power  of  carving  them  flowers  that  you  see  him  at 
now."  (Mr.  Baptist,  watching  their  faces  as  they  spoke, 
held  up  his  work.  Mrs.  Plornish  interpreted  in  her  Italian 
manner,  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Pancks,  ''  E  please.  Double 
good  !  ") 

''  Can  he  live  by  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Pancks. 

*'  He  can  live  on  very  little,  sir,  and  it  is  expected  as  he 
will  be  able,  in  time,  to  make  a  very  good  living.  Mr.  Clen- 
nam  got  it  him  to  do,  and  gives  him  odd  jobs  besides,  in  at 
the  works  next  door — makes  'em  for  him,  in  short,  when  he 
knows  he  wants  'em." 

*^  And  what  does  he  do  with  himself,  now,  when  he  ain't 
hard  at  it  ?  "  said  Mr.  Pancks. 

*'  Why,  not  much  as  yet,  sir,  on  account  I  suppose  of  not 
being  able  to  walk  much;  but  he  goes  about  the  yard,  and  he 
chats  without  particular  understanding  or  being  understood, 
and  he  plays  with  the  children,  and  he  sits  in  the  sun — he'll 
sit  down  anywhere,  as  if  it  was  a  arm-chair — and  he'll  sing, 
and  he'll  laugh  !  " 

"  Laugh  !"  echoed  Mr.  Pancks.  "  He  looks  to  me  as  if 
every  tooth  in  his  head  was  always  laughing." 

*^  But  whenever  he  gets  to  the  top  of  the  steps  at  t'other 
end  of  the  yard,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish,  *'  he'll  peep  out  in  the 
curiousest  way  !  So  that  some  of  us  thinks  he's  peeping  out 
toward  where  his  own  country  is,  and  some  of  us  thinks  he's 
looking  for  somebody  he  don't  want  to  see,  and  some  of  us 
don't  know  what  to  think." 

Mr.  Baptist  seemed  to  have  a  general  understanding  of 
what  she  said;  or  perhaps  his  quickness  caught  and  applied 
her  slight  action  of  peeping.  In  any  case,  he  closed  his  eyes 
and  tossed  his  head  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his  suffi- 
cient reasons  for  what  he  did,  and  said  in  his  own  tongue,  it 
didn't  matter.     Altro  ! 

**  What's  altro  ?"  said  Pancks. 

"  Hem  !  It's  a  sort  of  a  general  kind  of  expression,  sir," 
said  Mrs.  Plornish. 

*^  Is  it  ?  "  said  Pancks.  "  Why  then  altro  to  you,  old  chap. 
Good-afternoon.     Altro  !  " 

Mr.  Baptist  in  his  vivacious  way  repeating  the  word  sev- 
eral times,  Mr.  Pancks  in  his  duller  way  gave  it  him  back 
once.     From  that  time  it  became  a   frequent  custom  with 


3IO  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Pancks  the  gipsy,  as  he  went  home  jaded  at  night,  to  pass 
round  by  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  go  quietly  up  the  stairs,  look, 
in  at  Mr.  Baptist's  door,  and,  finding  him  in  his  room,  to  say 
''  Halloo,  old  chap  !  Altro  !"  To  which*  Mr.  Baptist  would 
reply  with  innumerable  bright  nods  and  smiles,  **  Altro,  sig- 
nor,  altro,  altro,  altro  !"  After  this  highly  condensed  con- 
versation, Mr.  Plancks  would  go  his  way;  with  an  appearance 
of  being  lightened  and  refreshed. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

nobody's  state  of  mind. 

If  Arthur  Clennam  had  not  arrived  at  that  wise  decision 
firmly  to  restrain  himself  from  loving  Pet  he  would  have 
lived  on  in  a  state  of  much  perplexity,  involving  difficult 
struggles  with  his  own  heart.  Not  the  least  of  these  would 
have  been  a  contention,  always  waging  within  it,  between  a 
tendency  to  dislike  Mr.  Henry  Gowan,  if  not  to  regard  him 
with  positive  repugnance,  and  a  whisper  that  the  inclination 
was  unworthy.  A  generous  nature  is  not  prone  to  strong 
aversions,  and  is  slow  to  admit  them  even  dispassionately  ; 
but  when  it  finds  ill-will  gaining  upon  it,  and  can  discern 
between-whiles  that  its  origin  is  not  dispassionate,  such  a 
nature  becomes  distressed. 

Therefore,  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  would  have  clouded  Clen- 
nam's  mind,  and  would  have  been  far  oftener  present  to  it 
than  more  agreeable  persons  and  subjects,  but  for  the  great 
prudence  of  his  decision  aforesaid.  As  it  was,  Mr.  Gowan 
seemed  transferred  to  Daniel  Doyce's  mind  ;  at  all  events,  it 
so  happened  that  it  usually  fell  to  Mr.  Doyce's  turn,  rather 
than  to  Clennam's,  to  speak  of  him  in  the  friendly  conversa- 
tions they  held  together.  These  were  of  frequent  occurrence 
now,  as  the  two  partners  shared  a  portion  of  a  roomy  house 
in  one  of  the  grave,  old-fashioned  city  streets,  lying  not  far 
from  the  Bank  of  England,  by  London  Wall. 

Mr.  Doyce  had  been  to  Twickenham  to  pass  the  day. 
Clennam  had  excused  himself.  Mr.  Doyce  was  just  come 
home.  He  put  in  his  head  at  the  door  of  Clennam's  sitting- 
room  to  say  good-night. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  !  "  said  Clennam. 

"  I  saw  you  were  reading,"  returned  Doyce,  as  he  entered, 
"  and  thought  you  might  not  care  to  be  disturbed." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  311 

But  for  the  notable  resolution  he  had  made,  Clennam  really 
might  not  have  known  what  he  had  been  reading  ;  really 
might  not  have  had  his  eyes  upon  the  book  for  an  hour  past, 
though  it  laid  open  before  him.  He  shut  it  up  rather  quickly. 

"  Are  they  well  ? "  he  asked. 

*'  Yes,"  said  Doyce  ;  ^*  they  are  well.     They  are  all  well." 

Daniel  had  an  old  workmanlike  habit  of  carrying  his 
pocket  handkerchief  in  his  hat.  He  took  it  out  and  wiped 
his  forehead  with  it,  slowly  repeating  ^*  they  are  all  well.  Miss 
Minnie  looking  particularly  well,  I  thought." 

"  Any  company  at  the  cottage  ?  " 

**  No,  no  company." 

**  And  how .  did  you  get  on,  you  four  ?  "  asked  Clennam, 
gayly. 

"  There  were  five  of  us,"  returned  his  partner.  "  There 
was  what's-his-name.     He  was  there." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  asked  Clennam. 

"Mr.  Henry  Gowan." 

"Ah,  to  be  sure  !"  cried  Clennam,  with  unusual  vivacity. 
"  Yes  !— I  forgot  him." 

"  As  I  mentioned,  you  may  remember,"  said  Daniel  Doyce, 
"  he  is  always  there  on  Sunday." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  returned  Clennam  ;  "  I  remember  now." 

Daniel  Doyce,  still  wiping  his  forehead,  ploddingly  re- 
peated, "  Yes.  He  was  there,  he  was  there.  Oh  yes,  he  was 
there.     And  his  dog.     Zr<?  was  there  too. " 

"  Miss  Meagles  is  quite  attached  to — the — dog,"  observed 
Clennam. 

"  Quite  so,"  assented  his  partner.  "More  attached  to  the 
dog  than  I  am  to  the  man." 

"  You  mean  Mr. ?  " 

"  I  mean  Mr.  Gowan,  most  decidedly,"  said  Daniel  Doyce. 

There  was  a  gap  in  the  conversation,  which  Clennam 
devoted  to  winding  up  his  watch. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  a  little  hasty  in  your  judgment,"  he  said. 
"  Our  judgments — I  am  supposing  a  general  case " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Doyce. 

"  Are  so  liable  to  be  influenced  by  many  considerations, 
which,  almost  without  our  knowing  it,  are  unfair,  that  it  is 
necessary  to  keep  a  guard  upon  them.  For  instance  Mr. " 

"  Gowan,"  quietly  said  Doyce,  upon  whom  the  utterance 
of  ihe  name  almost  always  devolved. 

"  Is  young  and  handsome,  easy  and  quick,  has  talent,  and 
has  seen  a  good  deal  of  various  kinds  of  life.     It  might  be 


312  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

difficult  to  give  an  unselfish  reason  for  being  prepossessed 
against  him." 

"  Not  difficult  for  me,  I  think,  Clennam,"  returned  his 
partner.  **  I  see  him  bringing  present  anxiety,  and,  I  fear, 
future  sorrow,  into  my  old  friend's  house.  I  see  him  wearing 
deeper  lines  into  my  old  friend's  face,  the  nearer  he  draws  to, 
and  the  oftener  he  looks  at,  the  face  of  his  daughter.  In 
short,  I  see  him  with  a  net  about  the  pretty  and  affectionate 
creature,  whom  he  will  never  make  happy." 

^*  We  don't  know,"  said  Clennam,  almost  in  the  tone  of  a 
man  in  pain,  *'  that  he  will  not  make  her  happy." 

*^  We  don't  know,"  returned  his  partner,  "  that  the  earth 
will  last  another  hundred  years,  but  we  think  it  highly  prob- 
able." 

"  Well,  well  !  "  said  Clennam,  *'  we  must  be  hopeful,  and 
we  must  at  least  try  to  be,  if  not  generous  (which  in  this 
case,  we  have  no  opportunity  of  being),  just.  We  will  not 
disparage  this  gentleman,  because  he  is  successful  in  his 
addresses  to  the  beautiful  object  of  his  ambition  ;  and  we 
will  not  question  her  natural  right  to  bestow  her  love  on  one 
whom  she  finds  worthy  of  it." 

"  May  be,  my  friend,"  said  Doyce.  "  May  be  also,  that 
she  is  too  young  and  petted,  too  confiding  and  inexperi- 
enced, to  discriminate  well." 

"  That,"  said  Clennam,  *^  would  be  far  beyond  our  power 
of  correction." 

Daniel  Doyce  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  rejoined,  "  I 
fear  so." 

^*  Therefore,  in  a  word,"  said  Clennam,  **  we  should  make 
up  our  minds  that  it  is  not  worthy  of  us  to  say  any  ill  of  Mr. 
Gowan.  It  would  be  a  poor  thing  to  gratify  a  prejudice 
against  him.  And  I  resolve,  for  my  part,  not  to  depreciate 
him." 

"  I  am  not  quite  so  sure  of  myself,  and  therefore  I  reserve 
my  privilege  of  objecting  to  him,"  returned  the  other.  *'  But, 
if  I  am  not  sure  of  myself,  I  am  sure  of  you,  Clennam,  and 
I  know  what  an  upright  man  you  are,  and  how  much  to  be 
respected.  Good-night,  my  friend  and  partner !  "  He 
shook  his  hand  in  saying  this,  as  if  there  had  been  some- 
thing serious  at  the  bottom  of  their  conversation  ;  and  they 
separated. 

By  this  time,  they  had  visited  the  family  on  several  occa- 
sions, and  had  always  observed  that  even  a  passing  allusion 
to  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  when  he  was  not  among  thfem,  brought 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  313 

back  the  cloud  which  had  obscured  Mr.  Meagles's  sunshine 
on  the  morning  of  the  chance  encounter  at  the  ferry.  If 
Clennam  had  ever  admitted  the  forbidden  passion  into  his 
breast,  this  period  might  have  been  a  period  of  real  trial  ; 
under  the  actual  circumstances,  doubtless  it  was  nothing — 
nothing. 

*  Equally,  if  his  heart  had  given  entertainment  to  that  pro- 
hibited guest-  his  silent  fighting  of  his  way  through  the  men- 
tal condition  of  this  period  might  have  been  a  little  meritor- 
ious. In  the  constant  effort  not  to  be  betrayed  into  a  new 
phase  of  the  besetting  sin  of  his  experience,  the  pursuit  of 
selfish  objects  by  low  and  small  means,  and  to  hold  instead 
to  some  high  principle  of  honor  and  generosity,  there  might 
have  been  a  little  merit.  In  the  resolution  not  even  to  avoid 
Mr.  Meagles's  house,  lest  in  the  selfish  sparing  of  himself,  he 
should  bring  any  slight  distress  upon  the  daughter  through 
making  her  the  cause  of  an  estrangement  which  he  believed 
the  father  would  regret,  there  might  have  been  a  little  merit. 
In  the  modest  truthfulness  of  always  keeping  in  view  the 
greater  equality  of  Mr.  Gowan's  years,  and  the  greater  attrac- 
tions of  his  person  and  manner,  there  might  have  been  a  little 
merit.  In  doing  all  this  and  much  more,  in  a  perfectly  un- 
affected way  and  with  a  manful  and  composed  constancy, 
while  the  pain  within  him  (peculiar  as  his  life  and  history) 
was  very  sharp,  there  might  have  been  some  quiet  strength 
of  character.  But,  after  the  resolution^  he  had  made,  of 
course  he  could  have  no  such  merits  as  these  ;  and  such  a 
state  of  mind  was  nobody's — nobody's. 

Mr.  Gowan  made  it  no  concern  of  his  whether  it  was  no- 
body's or  somebody's.  He  preserved,  his  perfect  serenity  of 
manner  on  all  occasions,  as  if  the  possibility  of  Clennam's 
presuming  to  have  debated  the  great  question  were  too  dis- 
tant and  ridiculous  to  be  imagined.  He  had  always  an  affa- 
bility to  bestow  on  Clennam,  and  an  ease  to  treat  him  with, 
which  might  of  itself  (in  the  supposititious  case  of  his  not 
having  taken  that  sagacious  course)  have  been  a  very  un- 
comfortable element  in  his  state  of  mind. 

"  I  quite  regret  you  were  not  with  us  yesterday,'*  said  Mr. 
Henry  Gowan  calling  on  Clennam,  the  next  morning.  "  We 
had  an  agreeable  day  up  the  river  there.'* 

So  he  had  heard,  Arthur  said. 

"  From  your  partner  ?  "  returned  Henry  Gowan.  "  What 
a  dear  old  fellow  he  is  !  " 

**  I  have  a  great  regard  for  him." 


314  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  By  Jove  !  he  is  the  finest  creature  !  "  said  Gowan.  "So 
fresh,  so  green,  trusts  in  such  wonderful  things  !  " 

Here  was  one  of  the  many  little  rough  points  that  had  a 
tendency  to  grate  on  Clennam's  hearing.  He  put  it  aside 
by  merely  repeating  that  he  had  a  high  regard  for  Mr. 
Doyce. 

*'  He  is  charming !  To  see  him  mooning  along  to  that 
time  of  life,  laying  down  nothing  by  the  way  and  picking  up 
nothing  by  the  way,  is  delightful.  It  warms  a  man.  So  un- 
spoiled, so  simple,  such  a  good  soul !  Upon  my  life,  Mr. 
Clennam,  one  feels  desperately  worldly  and  wicked,  in  com- 
parison with  such  an  innocent  creature.  I  speak  for  myself, 
let  me  add,  without  including  you.     You  are  genuine  also." 

^*  Thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  said  Clennam,  ill  at 
ease  ;  **  you  are  too,  I  hope  ?  " 

"So,  so,"  rejoined  the  other.  "To  be  candid  with  you, 
tolerably.  I  am  not  a  great  impostor.  Buy  one  of  my  pic- 
tures, and  I  assure  you,  in  confidence,  it  will  not  be  worth 
the  money.  Buy  one  of  another  man's — any  great  professor 
who  beats  me  hollow — and  the  chances  are  that  the  more 
you  give  him,  the  more  he'll  impose  upon  you.  They  all 
do  it." 

"  All  painters  ?  " 

"  Painters,  writers,  patriots,  all  the  rest  who  have  stands  in 
the  market.  Give  almost  any  man  I  know  ten  pounds,  and 
he  will  impose  upon  you  to  a  corresponding  extent;  a  thou- 
sand pounds — to  a  corresponding  extent;  ten  thousand 
pounds — to  a  corresponding  extent.  So  great  the  success,  so 
great  the  imposition.  But  what  a  capital  world  it  is  !  "  cried 
Gowan  with  warm  enthusiasm.  "  What  a  jolly,  excellent, 
lovable  world  it  is  !  " 

"  I  had  rather  thought,"  said  Clennam,  "that  the  principle 
you  mention  was  chiefly  acted  on  by " 

"  By  the  Barnacles  ? "  interrupted  Gowan,  laughingly. 

"  By  the  political  gentlemen  who  condescend  to  keep  the 
circumlocution  office." 

"  Ah  !  Don't  be  hard  upon  the  Barnacles,"  said  Gowan, 
laughing  afresh,  "  they  are  darling  fellows.  F.ven  poor  little 
Clarence,  the  born  idiot  of  the  family,  is  the  most  agreeable 
and  most  endearing  blockhead  !  And  by  Jupiter,  with  a  kind 
of  cleverness  in  him,  too,  that  would  astonish  you  !  " 

"  It  would.     Very  much,"  said  Clennam,  dryly. 

"And  after  all,"  cried  Gowan,  with  that  characteristic 
balancing  of  his,  which  reduced  every  thing  in  the  wide 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  315 

world  to  the  same  light  weight,  "  though  I  can't  deny  that 
the  circulocution  office  may  ultimately  shipwreck  every  body 
and  every  thing,  still  that  will  probably  not  be  in  our  time — 
and  it's  a  school  for  gentlemen." 

"  It's  a   very    dangerous,    unsatisfactory,    and    expensive^ 
school  to  the  people  who  pay  to  keep  the  pupils  there,  I  am 
afraid,"  said  Clennam,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Ah  I  You  are  a  terrible  fellow,"  returned  Gowan,  airily. 
"  I  can  understand  how  you  have  frightened  that  little  don- 
key, Clarence,  the  most  estimable  of  moon-calves  (I  really 
love  him),  nearly  out  of  his  wits.  But  enough  of  him,  and 
of  all  the  rest  of  them.  I  want  to  present  you  to  my  mother, 
Mr.  Clennam.  Pray  do  me  the  favor  to  give  me  the  oppor- 
tunity." 

In  nobody's  state  of  mind,  there  was  nothing  Clennam 
would  have  desired  less,  or  would  have  been  more  at  a  loss 
how  to  avoid. 

"  My  mother  lives  in  the  most  primitive  manner  down  in 
that  dreary  red-brick  dungeon  at  Hampton  Court,"  said 
Gowan.  ^'  If  you  would  make  your  ovn  appointment,  sug- 
gest your  own  day  for  permitting  me  to  take  you  there  to 
dinner,  you  would  be  bored  and  she  Wo:.ld  be  charmed. 
Really  that's  the  state  of  the  case." 

What  could  Clennam  say  after  this  ?  His  retiring  charac- 
ter included  a  great  deal  that  was  simple  in  the  best  sense, 
because  unpracticed  and  unused;  and  in  his  simplicity  and 
modesty,  he  could  only  say  that  he  was  happy  to  place  him- 
self at  Mr.  Gowan's  disposal.  Accordingly  he  said  it,  and 
the  day  was  fixed.  And  a  dreaded  day  it  was  on  his  part, 
and  a  very  unwelcome  day  when  it  came,  and  they  went  down 
to  Hampton  Court  together. 

The  venerable  inhabitants  of  that  venerable  pile  seemed, 
in  those  times,  to  be  encamped  there  like  a  sort  of  civilized 
gipsies.  There  was  a  temporary  air  about  their  establish- 
ments, as  if  they  were  going  away  the  moment  they  could  get 
any  thing  better;  there  was  also  a  dissatisfied  air  about 
themselves,  as  if  they  took  it  very  ill  that  they  had  not  already 
got  something  much  better.  Genteel  blinds  and  makeshifts 
were  more  or  less  observable  as  soon  as  their  doors  were 
opened;  screens  not  half  high  enough,  which  made  dining- 
rooms  out  of  arched  passages,  and  warded  off  obscure 
corners  where  foot-boys  slept  at  night  with  their  heads  among 
the  knives  and  forks;  curtains  which  called  upon  you  to 
believe  that  they  didn't  hide  any  thing;  panes  of  glass  which 


3i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

requested  you  not  to  see  them;  many  objects  of  various 
forms,  feigning  to  have  no  connection  with  their  guilty  secret, 
a  bed;  disguised  traps  in  walls,  which  were  clearly  coal- 
cellars;  affectations  of  no  thoroughfares,  which  were 
^evidently  doors  to  little  kitchens.  Mental  reservations  and 
artful  mysteries  grew  out  of  these  things.  Callers  looking 
steadily  into  the  eyes  of  their  receivers,  pretended  not  to 
smell  cooking  three  feet  off;  people,  confronting  closets  acci- 
dentally left  open,  pretended  not  to  see  bottles;  visitors,  with 
their  heads  against  a  partition  of  thin  canvas  and  a  page  and 
a  young  female  at  high  words  on  the  other  side,  made  believe 
to  be  sitting  in  a  primeval  silence.  There  was  no  end  to  the 
small  social  accommodation-bills  of  this  nature  which  the 
gipsies  of  gentility  were  constantly  drawing  upon,  and 
accepting  for,  one  another. 

Some  of  these  Bohemians  were  of  an  irritable  tempera- 
ment, as  constantly  soured  and  vexed  by  two  mental  trials; 
the  first,  the  consciousness  that  they  had  never  got  enough 
out  of  the  public  ;  the  second,  the  consciousness  that  the 
public  were  admitted  into  the  building.  Under  the  latter 
great  wrong,  a  few  suffered  dreadfully — particularly  on  Sun- 
days, when  they  had  for  some  time  expected  the  earth  to 
open  and  swallow  the  public  up  ;  but  which  desirable  event 
had  not  yet  occurred,  in  consequence  of  some  reprehensible 
laxity  in  the  arrangements  of  the  universe. 

Mrs.  Gowan's  door  was  attended  by  a  family  servant  of 
several  years'  standing,  who  had  his  own  crow  to  pluck  with 
the  public,  concerning  a  situation  in  the  post-ofhce  which  he 
had  been  for  some  time  e;cpecting,  and  to  which  he  was  not 
yet  appointed.  He  perfectly  knew  that  the  public  could 
never  have  got  him  in,  but  he  grimly  gratified  himself  with 
the  idea  that  the  public  kept  him  out.  Under  the  influence 
of  this  injury  (and  perhaps  of  some  little  straitness  and  ir- 
regularity in  the  matter  of  wages),  he  had  grown  neglectful 
of  his  person  and  morose  in  mind  ;  and  now  beholding  in 
Clennam  one  of  the  degraded  body  of  his  oppressors,  received 
him  with  ignominy. 

Mrs.  Gowan,  however,  received  him  with  condescension. 
He  found  her  a  courtly  old  lady,  formerly  a  beauty,  and  still 
sufficiently  well-favored  to  have  dispensed  with  the  powder 
on  her  nose,  and  a  certain  impossible  bloom  under  each  eye. 
She  was  a  little  lofty  with  him  ;  so  was  another  old  lady, 
dark-browed  and  high-nosed,  and  who  must  have  had  some- 
thing real  about  her  or   she  could  not  have  existed,  but  it 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  317 

was  certainly  not  her  hair  or  her  teeth  or  her  figure  or  her 
complexion  ;  so  was  a  gray  old  gentleman  of  dignified  and 
sullen  appearance  ;  both  of  whom  had  come  to  dinner. 
But,  as  they  had  all  been  in  the  British  Embassy  way  in 
sundry  parts  of  the  earth,  and  as  a  British  Embassy  can  not 
better  establish  a  character  with  the  circumlocution  office 
than  by  treating  its  compatriots  with  illimitable  contempt 
(else  it  would  become  like  the  embassies  of  other  countries), 
Clennam  felt  that  on  the  whole  they  let  him  off  lightly. 

The  dignified  old  gentleman  turned  out  to  be  Lord  Lan- 
caster Stiltstalking,  who  had  been  maintained  by  the  circum- 
locution office  for  many  years  as  a  representative  of  the 
Britannic  Majesty  abroad.  This  noble  refrigerator  had  iced 
several  European  courts  in  his  time,  and  had  done  it  with 
such  complete  success  that  the  very  name  of  Englishman  yet 
struck  cold  to  the  stomachs  of  foreigners  who  had  the  dis- 
tinguished honor  of  remembering  him,  at  a  distance  of  a 
quarter  of  a  century. 

He  was  now  in  retirement,  and  hence  (in  a  ponderous 
white  cravat,  like  a  stiff  snow-drift)  was  so  obliging  as  to 
shade  the  dinner.  There  was  a  whisper  of  the  pervading 
Bohemian  character  in  the  nomadic  nature  of  the  service, 
and  its  curious  races  of  plates  and  dishes  ;  but  the  noble 
refrigerator,  infinitely  better  than  plate  or  porcelain,  made  it 
superb.  He  shaded  the  dinner,  cooled  the  wines,  chilled  the 
gravy,  and  blighted  the  vegetables. 

There  was  only  one  other  person  in  the  room  :  a  micro- 
scopically small  foot-boy,  who  waited  on  the  malevolent  man 
who  hadn't  got  into  the  post-office.  Even  this  youth,  if  his 
jacket  could  have  been  unbuttoned  and  his  heart  laid  bare, 
would  have  been  seen,  as  a  distant  adherent  of  the  Barnacle 
family,  already  to  aspire  to  a  situation  under  government. 

Mrs.  Gowan  with  a  gentle  melancholy  upon  her,  occa- 
sioned by  her  son's  being  reduced  to  court  the  swinish  pub- 
lic as  a  follower  of  the  low  arts,  instead  of  asserting  his  birth- 
right and  putting  a  ring  through  its  nose  as  an  acknowledged 
Barnacle,  headed  the  conversation  at  dinner  on  the  evil  days. 
It  was  then  that  Clennam  learned  for  the  first  time  what 
little  pivots  this  great  world  goes  round  upon. 

"  If  John  Barnacle,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  after  the  degener- 
acy of  the  times  had  been  fully  ascertained,  "  if  John  Bar- 
nacle had  but  abandoned  his  most  unfortunate  idea  of  con- 
ciliating the  mob,  all  would  have  been  well,  and  I  think  the 
country  would  have  been  preserved.'* 


3i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

The  old  lady  with  the  high  nose  assented  ;  but  added 
that  if  Augustus  Stiltstalking  had  in  a  general  way  ordered 
the  cavalry  out  with  instructions  to  charge,  she  thought  the 
country  would  have  been  preserved. 

The  noble  refrigerator  assented  ;  but  added  that  if  Wil- 
liam Barnacle  and  Tudor  Stiltstalking,  when  they  came  over 
to  one  another  and  formed  their  ever-memorable  coalition, 
had  boldly  muzzled  the  newspapers,  and  rendered  it  penal 
for  any  editor-person  to  presume  to  discuss  the  conduct  of 
any  appointed  authority  abroad  or  at  home,  he  thought  the 
country  would  have  been  preserved. 

It  was  agreed  that  the  country  (another  word  for  the  Barna- 
cles and  Stiltstalkings)  wanted  preserving,  but  how  it  came  to 
want  preserving  was  not  so  clear.  It  was  only  clear  that  the 
question  was  all  about  John  Barnacle,  Augustus  Stiltstalking, 
William  Barnacle  and  Tudor  Stiltstalking,  Tom,  Dick,  or 
Harry  Barnacle  or  Stiltstalking,  because  there  was  nobody 
else  but  mob.  And  this  was  the  feature  of  the  conversation 
which  impressed  Clennam,  as  a  man  not  used  to  it,  very  dis- 
agreeably ;  making  him  doubt  if  it  were  quite  right  to  sit 
there  silently  hearing  a  great  nation  narrowed  to  such  little 
bounds.  Remembering,  however,  that  in  the  Parliamentary 
debates,  whether  on  the  life  of  that  nation's  body  or  the  life 
of  its  soul,  the  question  was  usually  all  about  and  between 
John  Barnacle,  Augustus  Stiltstalking,  William  Barnacle  and 
Tudor  Stiltstalking,  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  Barnacle  or  Stilt- 
stalking, and  nobody  else  ;  he  said  nothing  on  the  part  of 
mob,  bethinking  himself  that  mob  was  used  to  it. 

Mr.  Henry  Gowan  seemed  to  have  a  malicious  pleasure  in 
playing  off  the  three  talkers  against  each  other,  and  in  seeing 
Clennam  startled  by  what  they  said.  Having  as  supreme  a 
contempt  for  the  class  that  had  thrown  him  off,  as  for  the 
class  that  had  not  taken  him  on,  he  had  no  personal  disquiet 
in  any  thing  that  passed.  His  healthy  state  of  mind  appeared 
even  to  derive  a  gratification  from  Clennam's  position  of 
embarrassment  and  isolation  among  the  good  company;  and 
if  Clennam  had  been  in  that  condition  with  which  nobody 
was  incessantly  contending,  he  would  have  suspected  it,  and 
would  have  struggled  with  the  suspicion  as  a  meanness,  even 
while  he  sat  at  the  table. 

In  the  course  of  a  couple  of  hours  the  noble  refrigerator, 
at  no  time  less  than  a  hundred  years  behind  the  period, 
got  about  five  centuries  in  arrear,  and  delivered  solemn 
political  oracles  appropriate  to  that  epoch.     He  finished  by 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  ^xg 

freezing  a  cup  of  tea  for  his  own  drinking,  and  retiring  at  his 
lowest  temperature. 

Then  Mrs".  Gowan,  who  had  been  accustomed  in  her  days 
of  state  to  retain  a  vacant  arm-chair  beside  her  to  which  to 
summon  her  devoted  slaves,  one  by  one,  for  short  audiences 
as  marks  of  her  especial  favor,  invited  Clennam  with  a  turn 
of  her  fan  to  approach  the  presence.  He  obeyed,  and  took 
the  tripod  recently  vacated  by  Lord  Lancaster   Stiltstalking. 

"  Mr.  Glennam,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  *'  apart  from  the  hap- 
piness I  have  in  becoming  known  to  you,  though  in  this  odi- 
ously inconvenient  place — a  mere  barrack — there  is  a  subject 
on  which  I  am  dying  to  speak  to  you.  It  is  the  subject  in 
connection  with  which  my  son  first  had,  I  believe,  the  pleas- 
ure of  cultivating  your  acquaintance." 

Clennam  inclined  his  head,  as  a  generally  suitable  reply  to 
what  he  did  not  yet  quite  understand. 

**  First,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  '^now  is  she  really  pretty  ?" 

In  nobody's  difficulties,  he  would  have  found  it  very 
difficult  to  answer  ;  very  difficult  indeed  to  smile,  and  say 
"  Who  ?" 

"  Oh  !  You  know  !"  she  returned.  "  This  flame  of 
Henry's.  This  unfortunate  fancy.  There  !  If  it  is  a  point 
of  honor  that  I  should  originate  the  name — Miss  Mickles — 
Miggles." 

^'  Miss  Meagles,"  said  Clennam,  '*  is  very  beautiful." 

"  Men  are  so  often  mistaken  on  those  points,"  returned 
Mrs.  Gowan,  shaking  her  head,  "  that  I  candidly  confess  to 
you  that  I  feel  any  thing  but  sure  of  it,  even  now  ;  though  it 
is  something  to  have  Henry  corroborated  with  so  much 
gravity  and  emphasis.  He  picked  the  people  up  at  Rome,  I 
think  ?" 

The  phrase  would  have  given  nobody  mortal  offense. 
Clennam  replied,  *'  Excuse  me,  I  doubt  if  I  understand  your 
expression." 

"  Picked  the  people  up,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  tapping  the 
sticks  of  her  closed  fan  (a  large  green  one,  which  she  used 
as  a  hand-screen)  upon  her  little  table.  "  Came  upon  them. 
Found  them  out.     Stumbled  against  them.'* 

"  The  people  ?" 

"Yes.     The  Miggles  people." 

"  I  really  can  not  say,"  said  Clennam,  "  where  my  friend 
Mr.  Meagles  first  presented  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  to  his  daugh- 
ter." 

*'  I  am  pretty  sure  he  picked  her  up  at  Rome  ;   but  never 


S20  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

mind  where — somewhere.  Now  (this  is  entirely  betweeia 
ourselves),  is  she  very  plebeian  T 

"  Really,  ma'am,"  returned  Clennam,  ''  I  am  so  undoubt- 
edly plebeian  myself,  that  I  do  not  feel  qualified  to  judge." 

"Very  neat!"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  coolly  unfurling  her 
screen.  "  Very  happy  !  From  which  I  infer  that  you 
secretly  think  her  manner  equal  to  her  looks  ?" 

Clennam,  after  a  moment's  stiffness,  bowed. 

"  That's  comforting,  and  I  hope  you  may  be  right.  Did 
Henry  tell  me  you  had  traveled  with  them  ?" 

*'  I  traveled  with  my  friend  Mr.  Meagles,  and  his  wife  and 
daughter,  during  some  months."  (Nobody's  heart  might 
have  been  wrung  by  the  remembrance.) 

"  Really  comforting,  because  you  must  have  had  a  large 
experience  of  them.  You  see,  Mr.  Clennam,  this  thing  has 
been  going  on  for  a  long  time,  and  I  find  no  improvement  in 
it.  Therefore  to  have  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  one  so 
well  informed  about  it  as  yourself,  is  an  immense  relief  to 
me.     Quite  a  boon.     Quite  a  blessing,  I  am  sure." 

"  Pardon  me,"  returned  Clennam,  "  but  I  am  not  in  Mr. 
Henry  Gowan's  confidence.  I  am  far  from  being  so  well 
informed  as  you  suppose  me  to  be.  Your  mistake  makes  my 
position  a  very  delicate  one.  No  word  on  this  topic  has 
ever  passed  between  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  and  myself." 

Mrs.  Gowan  glanced  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  where 
her  son  was  playing  ecarte  on  a  sofa,  with  the  old  lady  who 
was  for  a  charge  of  cavalry. 

*'  Not  in  his  confidence  ?  No,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  No 
word  has  passed  between  you  !  No.  That  I  can  imagine. 
But  there  are  unexpressed  confidences,  Mr.  Clennam  ;  and 
as  you  have  been  together  intimately  among  these  people, 
I  can  not  doubt  a  confidence  of  that  sort  exists  in  the 
present  case.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  that  I  have  suf- 
fered the  keenest  distress  of  mind  from  Henry's  having 
taken  to  a  pursuit  which — well  !  "  shrugging  her  shoulders, 
"  a  very  respectable  pursuit,  I  dare  say,  and  some  artists 
are,  as  artists,  quite  superior  persons  ;  still,  we  never  yet 
in  our  family  have  gone  beyond  an  amateur,  and  it  is  a 
pardonable  weakness  to  feel  a  little " 

As  Mrs.  Gowan  broke  off  to  heave  a  sigh,  Clennam,  how- 
ever resolute  to  be  magnanimous,  could  not  keep  down  the 
thought  that  there  was  mighty  little  danger  of  the  family's 
ever  going  beyond  an  amateur,  even  as  it  was. 

"  Henry,"  the  mother  resumed,    "  is  self-willed  and  res- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  321 

olute  ;  and  as  these  people  naturally  strain  every  nerve 
to  catch  him,  I  can  entertain  very  little  hope,  Mr.  Clen- 
nam,  that  the  thing  will  be  broken  off.  I  apprehend  the 
girl's  fortune  will  be  very  small  ;  Henry  might  have  done 
much  better  ;  there  is  scarcely  any  thing  to  compensate 
for  the  connection  ;  still,  he  acts  for  himself  ;  and  if  I 
find  no  improvement  within  a  short  time,  I  see  no  other 
course  than  to  resign  myself,  and  make  the  best  of  these 
people.  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  you  for  what  you  have 
told  me." 

As  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  Clennam  stiffly  bowed 
again.  With  an  uneasy  flush  upon  his  face,  and  hesitation 
in  his  manner,  he  then  said,  in  a  still  lower  tone  than  he 
had  adopted  yet : 

"  Mrs.  Gowan,  I  scarcely  know  how  to  acquit  myself  of 
what  I  feel  to  be  a  duty,  and  yet  I  must  ask  you  for  your 
kind  consideration  in  attempting  to  discharge  it.  A  miscon- 
ception on  your  part,  a  very  great  misconception  if  I  may 
venture  to  call  it  so,  seems  to  require  setting  right.  You 
have  supposed  Mr.  Meagles  and  his  family  to  strain  every 
nerve,  I  think  you  said " 

"  Every  nerve,"  repeated  Mrs.  Gowan,  looking  at  him  in 
calm  obstinacy,  with  her  green  fan  between  her  face  and 
the  fire. 

**  To  secure  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  ?  " 

The  lady  placidly  assented. 

**  Now  that  is  so  far,"  said  Arthur,  "  from  being  the  case, 
that  I  know  Mr.  Meagles  to  be  unhappy  in  this  matter  ;  and 
to  have  interposed  all  reasonable  obstacles,  with  the  hope  of 
putting  an  end  to  it." 

Mrs.  Gowan  shut  up  her  great  green  fan,  tapped  him  on 
the  arm  with  it,  and  tapped  her  smiling  lips.  *'  Why,  of 
course,"  said  she.     "  Just  what  I  mean." 

Arthur  watched  her  face  for  some  explanation  of  what 
she  did  mean. 

"  Are  you  really  serious,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  Don't  you 
see  ?" 

Arthur  did  not  see  ;  and  said  so. 

"  Why,  don't  I  know  my  son,  and  don't  I  know  that  this 
is  exactly  the  way  to  hold  him  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  con- 
temptuously ;  "  and  do  not  these  Miggles  people  know  it,  at 
least  as  well  as  I  ?  Oh,  shrewd  people,  Mr.  Clennam  ;  evi- 
dently people  of  business  !  I  believe  Miggles  belonged  to 
a  bank.     It  ought  to  have  been  a  very  profitable  bank,  if  he 


322  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

had  much  to  do  with  its  management.     This  is  very  well 
done,  indeed." 

*^  I  beg  and  entreat  you,  ma'am- "  Arthur  interposed. 

**  Oh,  Mr.  Clennam,  can  you  really  be  so  credulous  !  " 

It  made  such  a  painful  impression  upon  him  to  hear  her 
talking  in  this  haughty  tone,  and  to  see  her  patting  her  con- 
temptuous lips  with  her  fan,  that  he  said  very  earnestly,  "  Be- 
lieve me,  ma'am,  this  is  unjust,  a  perfectly  groundless  sus- 
picion." 

"Suspicion?"  repeated  Mrs.  Gowan.  *' Not  suspicion, 
Mr.  Clennam,  certainty.  It  is  very  knowingly  done  indeed, 
and  seems  to  have  taken  you  incompletely."  She  laughed  ; 
and  again  sat  tapping  her  lips  with  her  fan,  and  tossing  her 
head,  as  if  she  added,  "  Don't  tell  me.  I  know  such  people 
will  do  any  thing  for  the  honor  of  such  an  alliance." 

At  this  opportune  moment,  the  cards  were  thrown  up,  and 
Mr.  Henry  Gowan  came  across  the  room  saying,  '^  Mother, 
if  you  can  spare  Mr.  Clennam  for  this  time,  we  have  a  long 
way  to  go,  and  it's  getting  late."  Mr.  Clennam  thereupon 
rose,  as  he  had  no  choice  but  to  do  ;  and  Mrs.  Gowan 
showed  him,  to  the  last,  the  same  look  and  the  same  tapped 
contemptuous  lips. 

"  You  have  had  a  portentously  long  audience  of  my 
mother,"  said  Gowan,  as  the  door  closed  upon  them.  "  I 
fervently  hope  she  has  not  bored  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Clennam. 

They  had  a  little  open  phaeton  for  the  journey,  and  were 
soon  in  it  on  the  road  home.  Gowan,  driving,  lighted  a 
cigar  ;  Clennam  declined  one.  Do  what  he  would,  he  fell 
into  such  a  mood  of  abstraction,  that  Gowan  said  again,  "  I 
am  very  much  afraid  my  mother  has  bored  you  ?  "  To  which 
he  roused  himself  to  answer,  *^  Not  at  all  ;  "  and  soon 
relapsed  again. 

In  that  state  of  mind  which  rendered  nobody  uneasy,  his 
thoughtfulness  would  have  turned  principally  on  the  man  at 
his  side.  He  would  have  thought  of  the  morning  when  he 
first  saw  him  rooting  out  the  stones  with  his  heel,  and  would 
have  asked  himself,  "  Does  he  jerk  me  out  of  the  path  in  the 
same  careless  cruel  way  ? "  He  would  have  thought,  had 
this  introduction  to  his  mother  been  brought  about  by  him 
because  he  knew  what  she  would  say,  and  that  he  could  thus 
place  his  position  before  a  rival  and  loftily  warn  him  off, 
without  himself  reposing  a  word  of  confidence  in  him  ?  He 
would  have  thought,  even  if  there  were  no  such  design  as 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  323 

that,  had  he  brought  him  there  to  play  with  his  repressed 
emotions,  and  torment  him  ?  The  current  of  these  medita- 
tions would  have  been  stayed  sometimes  by  a  rush  of  shame, 
bearing  a  remonstrance  to  himself  from  his  own  open  nature, 
representing  that  to  shelter  such  suspicions,  even  for  the 
passing  moment,  was  not  to  hold  the  high,  unenvious  course 
he  had  resolved  to  keep.  At  those  times,  the  striving  within 
him  would  have  been  hardest  ;  and  looking  up  and  catch- 
ing Gowan's  eyes,  he  would  have  started  as  if  he  had  done 
him  an  injury. 

Then,  looking  at  the  dark  road  and  its  uncertain  objects, 
he  would  have  gradually  trailed  off  again  into  thinking, 
"  Where  are  we  driving,  he  and  I,  I  wonder,  on  the  darker 
road  of  life  ?  How  will  it  be  with  us,  and  with  her,  in  the 
obscure  distance  ?  "  Thinking  of  her,  he  would  have  been 
troubled  anew  with  a  reproachful  misgiving  that  it  was  not 
even  loyal  to  her  to  dislike  him,  and  that  in  being  so  easily 
prejudiced  against  him  he  was  less  deserving  of  her  than  at 
first. 

"  You  are  evidently  out  of  spirits,"  said  Gowan  ;  "  I  am 
very  much  afraid  my  mother  must  have  bored  you  dread- 
fully." ^ 

^*  Believe  me,  not  at  all,"  said  Clennam.  "  It*s  nothing — 
nothing  !  "  ' 

CHAPTER     XXVn. 

FIVE-AND-TWENTY. 

A  frequently  recurring  doubt,  whether  Mr.  Pancks's 
desire  to  collect  information  relative  to  the  Dorrit  family 
could  have  any  possible  bearing  on  the  misgivings  he  had 
imparted  to  his  mother  on  his  return  from  his  long  exile, 
caused  Arthur  Clennam  much  uneasiness  at  this  period. 
What  Mr.  Pancks  already  knew  about  the  Dorrit  family, 
what  more  he  really  wanted  to  find  out,  and  why  he  should 
trouble  his  busy  head  about  them  at  all,  were  questions  that 
often  perplexed  him.  Mr.  Pancks  was  not  a  man  to  waste 
his  time  and  trouble  in  researches  prompted  by  idle  curiosity. 
That  he  had  a  specific  object  Clennani  could  not  doubt. 
And  whether  the  attainment  of  that  object  by  Mr.  Pancks's 
industry  might  bring  to  light  in  some  untimely  way,  secret 
reasons  which  had  induced  his  mother  to  take  Little  Dorrit 
by  the  hand,  was  a  serious  speculation.  ,^  «        ^ 


324  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Not  that  he  ever  wavered,  either  in  his  desire  or  his  deter- 
mination to  repair  a  wrong  that  had  been  done  in  his  father's 
time,  should  a  wrong  come  to  light,  and  be  reparable.  The 
shadow  of  a  supposed  act  of  injustice,  which  had  hung  over 
him  since  his  father's  death,  was  so  vague  and  formless  that 
it  might  be  the  result  of  a  reality  widely  remote  from  his  idea 
of  it.  But,  if  his  apprehensions  should  prove  to  be  well 
founded,  he  was  ready  at  any  moment  to  lay  down  all  he  had, 
and  begin  the  world  anew.  As  the  fierce  dark  teaching  of  his 
childhood  had  never  sunk  into  his  heart,  so  the  first  article 
in  his  code  of  morals  was,  that  he  must  begin  in  practical 
humility,  with  looking  well  to  his  feet  on  earth,  and  that  he 
could  never  mount  on  wings  of  words  to  heaven.  Duty  on 
earth,  restitution  on  earth,  action  on  earth;  these  first,  as 
the  first  steep  steps  upward.  Strait  was  the  gate  and  narrow 
was  the  way;  far  straiter  and  narrower  than  the  broad  high 
road  paved  with  vain  professions  and  vain  repetitions,  motes 
from  other  men's  eyes  and  liberal  delivery  of  others  to  the 
judgment — all  cheap  materials  costing  absolutely  nothing. 

No.  It  was  not  a  selfish  fear  or  hesitation  that  rendered 
him  uneasy,  but  a  mistrust  lest  Pancks  might  not  observe  his 
part  of  the  understanding  between  them,  and,  making  any 
discovery,  might  take  some  course  upon  it  without  imparting 
it  to  him.  On  the  other  hand,  when  he  recalled  his  conver- 
sation with  Pancks,  and  the  little  reason  he  had  to  suppose 
that  there  was  any  likelihood  of  that  strange  personage  being 
on  that  track  at  all,  there  were  times  when  he  wondered  that 
he  made  so  much  of  it.  Laboring  in  this  sea,  as  all  barks 
labor  in  cross- seas,  he  tossed  about  and  came  to  no  haven. 

The  removal  of  Little  Dorrit  herself  from  their  customary 
association,  did  not  mend  the  matter.  She  was  so  much  in 
her  own  room,  that  he  began  to  miss  her  and  find  a  blank 
in  her  place.  He  had  written  to  her  to  inquire  if  she  were 
better,  and  she  had  written  back,  very  gratefully  and  earn- 
estly, telling  him  not  to  be  uneasy  on  her  behalf,  for  she  was 
quite  well;  but  he  had  not  seen  her,  for  what,  in  their  inter- 
course, was  a  long  time. 

He  returned  home  one  evening  from  an  interview  with  her 
father,  who  had  mentioned  that  she  was  out  visiting — which 
was  what  he  always  said,  when  she  was  hard  at  work  to  buy 
his  supper — and  found  Mr.  Meagles  in  an  excited  state  walk- 
ing up  and  down  his  room.  On  his  opening  the  door,  Mr 
Meagles  stopped,  faced  round,  and  said. 

"  Clennam  ! — Tattycoram  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  325 

*'  What's  the  matter  ?  '* 

''  Lost  !  " 

"  Why,  bless  my  heart  alive  !  "  cried  Clennam  in  amaze- 
ment.    '^  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Wouldn't  count  live-and-twenty,  sir;  couldn't  be  got  to 
do  it;  stopped  at  eight,  and  took  herself  off." 

"  Left  your  house  ?  " 

"  Never  to  come  back,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his 
head.  ^'  You  don't  know  that  girl's  passionate  and  proud 
character.  A  team  of  horses  couldn't  draw  her  back  now, 
the  bolts  and  bars  of  the  old  Bastille  couldn't  keep  her." 

**  How  did  it  happen  ?     Pray  sit  down  and  tell  me." 

*^  As  to  how  it  happened,  it's  not  so  easy  to  relate;  because 
you  must  have  the  unfortunate  temperament  of  the  poor  im- 
petuous girl  herself,  before  you  can  fully  understand  it.  But 
it  came  about  in  this  way.  Pet  and  mother  and  I  have  been 
having  a  good  deal  of  talk  together  of  late.  I'll  not  disguise 
from  you,  Clennam,  that  those  conversations  have  not  been 
of  as  bright  a  kind  as  I  could  wish;  they  have  referred  to 
our  going  away  again.  In  proposing  to  do  which,  I  have 
had,  in  fact,  an  object." 

Nobody's  heart  beat  quickly. 

*'  An  object,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
**  that  I  will  not  disguise  from  you,  either,  Clennam.  There's 
an  inclination  on  the  part  of  my  dear  child  which  I  am  sorry 
for.     Perhaps  you  guess  the  person.     Henry  Gowan." 

"  I  was  not  unprepared  to  hear  it." 

"Well  I"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  wish 
to  God  you  had  never  had  to  hear  it.  However,  so  it  is. 
Mother  and  I  have  done  all  we  could  to  get  the  better  of  it, 
Clennam.  We  have  tried  tender  advice,  we  have  tried  time, 
we  have  tried  absence.  As  yet,  of  no  use.  Our  late  conver- 
sations have  been  upon  the  subject  of  going  away  for  another 
year  at  least,  in  order  that  there  might  be  an  entire  separation 
and  breaking  off  for  that  term.  Upon  that  question.  Pet  has 
been  unhappy,  and  therefore  mother  and  I  have  been  un- 
happy." 

Clennam  said  that  he  could  easily  believe  it. 

"  Well  !  "  continued  Mr.  Meagles  in  an  apologetic  way, 
"  I  admit  as  a  practical  man,  and  I  am  sure  mother  would 
admit  as  a  practical  woman,  that  we  do,  in  families,  magnify 
our  troubles  and  make  mountains  of  our  molehills,  in  a  way 
that  is  calculated  to  be  rather  trying  to  people  who  look  on 
— to  mere  outsiders  you  know,  Clennam.     Still,   Pet's  hap- 


326  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

piness  or  unhappiness  is  quite  a  life  or  death  question  with 
us;  and  we  may  be  excused,  I  hope,  for  making  much  of  it. 
At  all  events,  it  might  have  been  borne  by  Tattycoram.  Now, 
don't  you  think  so  V 

"  I  do  indeed  think  so,"  returned  Clennam,  in  most  em- 
phatic recognition  of  this  very  moderate  expectation. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his  head  ruefully. 
*'  She  couldn't  stand  it.  The  chafing  and  firing  of  that  girl, 
the  wearing  and  tearing  of  that  girl  within  her  own  breast, 
has  been  such  that  I  have  softly  said  to  her  again  and  again 
in  passing  her,  '  Five-and-twenty,  Tattycoram,  five-and- 
twenty!  '  I  heartily  wish  she  could  have  gone  on  counting 
five-and-twenty  day  and  night,  and  then  it  wouldn't  have 
happened." 

Mr.  Meagles,  with  a  despondent  countenance,  in  which 
the  goodness  of  his  heart  was  even  more  expressed  than  in 
his  times  of  cheerfulness  and  gayety,  stroked  his  face  down 
from  his  forehead  to  his  chin,  and  shook  his  head  again. 

"  I  said  to  mother  (not  that  it  was  necessary,  for  she 
would  have  thought  it  all  for  herself),  we  are  practical  people, 
niy  dear,  and  we  know  her  story  ;  we  see  in  this  unhappy 
girl  some  reflection  of  what  was  raging  in  her  mother's  heart 
before  ever  such  a  creature  as  this  poor  thing  was  in  the 
world  ;  we'll  gloss  her  temper  over,  mother,  we  won't  notice 
it  at  present,  my  dear,  we'll  take  advantage  of  some  better 
disposition  in  her,  another  time.  So  we  said  nothing.  But, 
do  what  we  would,  it  seems  as  if  it  was  to  be  ;  she  broke  out 
violently  one  night." 

"  How,  and  why  ?  " 

"If  you  ask  me  why,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  a  little  disturbed 
by  the  question,  for  he  was  far  more  intent  on  softening  her 
case  than  the  family's,  "  I  can  only  refer  you  to  what  I  have 
just  repeated  as  having  been  pretty  near  my  words  to  mother. 
As  to  how,  we  had  said  good-night  to  Pet  in  her  presence 
(very  affectionately,  I  must  allow),  and  she  had  attended  Pet 
up  stairs — you  remember  she  was  her  maid.  Perhaps  Pet, 
having  been  out  of  sorts,  may  have  been  a  little  more  incon- 
siderate than  usual  in  requiring  services  of  her  ;  but  I  don't 
know  that  I  have  any  right  to  say  so  ;  she  was  always  thought- 
ful and  gentle." 

"  The  gentlest  mistress  in  the  world." 

"  Thank  you,  Clennam,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  him 
by  the  hand  ;  "  you  have  often  seen  them  together.  Well  ! 
Wcj  ])resently  heard  this  unfortunate  Tattycoram  loud  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  327 

angry,  and  before  we  could  ask  what  was  the  matter,  Pet 
came  back  in  a  tremble,  saying  she  was  frightened  of  her. 
Close  after  her  came  Tattycoram,  in  a  flaming  rage.  *  I  hate 
you  all  three/  says  she,  stamping  her  foot  at  us.  '  I  am 
bursting  with  hate  of  the  whole  house  ! '  " 

^'  Upon  which  you ?  " 

^^I?"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  with  a  plain  good  faith,  that 
might  have  commanded  the  belief  of  Mrs.  Gowan  herself, 
*^  I  said,  count  five-and-twenty,  Tattycoram." 

Mr.  Meagles  again  stroked  his  face  and  shook  his  head, 
with  an  air  of  profound  regret. 

^'  She  was  so  used  to  do  it,  Clennam,  that  even  then,  such 
a  picture  of  passion  as  you  never  saw,  she  stopped  short, 
looked  me  full  in  the  face,  and  counted  (as  I  made  out)  to 
eight.  But  she  couldn't  control  herself  to  go  any  further. 
There  she  broke  down,  poor  thing,  and  gave  the  other  seven- 
teen to  the  four  winds.  Then  it  all  burst  out.  She  detested 
us,  she  was  miserable  with  us,  she  couldn't  bear  it,  she 
wouldn't  bear  it,  she  was  determined  to  go  away.  She  was 
younger  than  her  young  mistress,  and  would  she  remain  to 
see  her  always  held  up  as  the  only  creature  who  was  young 
and  interesting,  and  to  be  cherished  and  loved  ?  No.  She 
wouldn't,  she  wouldn't,  she  wouldn't  !  What  did  we  think 
she,  Tattycoram,  might  have  been  if  she  had  been  caressed 
and  cared  for  in  her  childhood,  like  her  young  mistress  ?  As 
good  as  her  ?  Ah  !  perhaps  fifty  times  as  good.  When  we 
pretended  to  be  so  fond  of  one  another,  we  exulted  over 
her  ;  that  was  what  we  did  ;  we  exulted  over  her  and  shamed 
her.  And  all  in  the  house  did  the  same.  They  talked  about 
their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  brothers  and  sisters  ;  they 
liked  to  drag  them  up  before  her  face.  There  was  Mrs. 
Tickit,  only  yesterday,  when  her  little  grandchild  was  with 
her,  had  been  amused  by  the  child's  trying  to  call  her  (Tat- 
tycoram) by  the  wretched  name  we  gave  her  ;  and  had 
laughed  at  the  name.  Why,  who  didn't  ;  and  who  were  we, 
that  we  should  have  a  right  to  name  her,  like  a  dog  or  a  cat  ? 
But  she  didn't  care.  She  would  take  no  more  benefits  from 
us  ;  she  would  fling  us  her  name  back  again,  and  she  would 
go.  She  would  leave  us  that  minute,  nobody  should  stop 
her,  and  we  should  never  hear  of  her  again." 

Mr.  Meagles  had  recited  all  this  with  such  a  vivid  remem- 
brance of  his  original,  that  he  was  almost  as  flushed  and  hot 
by  this  time  as  he  described  her  to  have  been. 

*^Ah,  well  !  "  he  said,  wiping  his  face.     *^  It  was  of  no  use 


328  LITTi^E  DORRIT. 

trying  reason  then,  with  that  vehement,  panting  creature 
(heaven  knows  what  her  mother's  story  must  have  been)  ; 
so  I  quietly  told  her  that  she  should  not  go  at  that  late  hour 
of  the  night,  and  I  gave  her  my  hand  and  took  her  to  her 
room,  and  locked  the  house  doors.  But  she  was  gone  this 
morning." 

"  And  you  know  no  more  of  her  ?  " 

**  No  more,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles.  "  I  have  been  hunt- 
ing about  all  day.  She  must  have  gone  very  early  and  very 
silently.     I  have  found  no  trace  of  her,  down  about  us." 

"•Stay  !  You  want,"  said  Clennam,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  "  to  see  her  ?     I  assume  that  ?" 

"Yes,  assuredly;  I  want  to  give  her  another  chance; 
mother  and  Pet  want  to  give  her  another  chance;  come  ! 
you  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  persuasively,  as  if  the  prov- 
ocation to  be  angry  were  not  his  own  at  all,  "  want  to  give 
the  poor  passionate  girl  another  chance,  I  know,  Clennam." 

"  It  would  be  strange  and  hard  indeed  if  I  did  not,"  said 
Clennam;  "  when  you  are  all  so  forgiving.  What  I  was  going 
to  ask  you  was,  have  you  thought  of  that  Miss  Wade  ?" 

"  I  have.  I  did  not  think  of  her  until  I  had  pervaded  the 
whole  of  our  neighborhood,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  should 
have  done  so  then,  but  for  finding  mother  and  Pet,  when  I 
went  home,  full  of  the  idea  that  Tattycoram  must  have  gone 
to  her.  Then,  of  course,  I  recalled  what  she  said  that  day 
at  dinner  when  you  were  first  with  us." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  where  Miss  Wade  is  to  be  found  ?  " 

^^  To  tell  you  the  truth,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles,  "  it's 
because  I  have  an  addled  jumble  of  a  notion  on  that  subject, 
that  you  found  me  waiting  here.  There  is  one  of  those  odd 
impressions  in  my  house,  which  do  mysteriously  get  into 
houses  sometimes,  which  nobody  seems  to  have  picked  up 
in  a  distinct  form  from  any  body,  and  yet  which  every  body 
seems  to  have  got  hold  of  loosely  from  somebody  and  let 
go  again,  that  she  lives,  or  was  living,  thereabouts."  Mr. 
Meagles  handed  him  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  was  written 
the  name  of  one  of  the  dull  by-streets  in  the  Grosvenor 
region,  near  Park  Lane. 

"  Here  is  no  number,"  said  Arthur,  looking  over  it. 

"  No  number,  my  dear  Clennam?"  returned  his  friend. 
"  No  any  thing  !  The  very  name  of  the  street  may  have  been 
floating  in  the  air,  for,  as  I  tell  you,  none  of  my  people  can 
say  where  they  got  it  from.  However,  it's  worth  an  inquiry; 
and  as  I  would  rather  make  it  in  company  than  alone,  and  as 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  329 

you  too  were  a  fellow  traveler  of   that  immovable  woman's, 

I  thought  perhaps "  Clennam  finished  the    sentence  for 

him  by  taking  up  his  hat  again,  and  saying  he  was  ready. 

It  was  now  summer-time;  a  gray,  hot,  dusty  evening. 
They  rode  to  the  top  of  Oxford  Street,  and  there  alighting, 
dived  in  among  the  great  streets  of  melancholy  stateliness, 
and  the  little  streets  that  try  to  be  as  stately  and  succeed  in 
being  more  melancholy,  of  which  there  is  a  labyrinth  near 
Park  Lane.  Wildernesses  of  corner  houses,  with  barbarous 
old  porticoes  and  appurtenances  ;  horrors  that  came  into 
existence  under  some  wrong-headed  person  in  some  wrong- 
headed  time,  still  demanding  the  blind  admiration  of  all 
ensuing  generations  and  determined  to  do  so  until  they 
tumbled  down;  frowned  upon  the  twilight.  Parasite  little 
tenements,  with  the  cramp  in  their  whole  frame,  from  the 
dwarf  hall-door  on  the  giant  model  of  his  grace's  in  the 
square  to  the  squeezed  window  of  the  boudoir  commanding 
the  dunghills  in  the  Mews,  made  the  evening  doleful. 
Rickety  dwellings  of  undoubted  fashion,  but  of  a  capacity  to 
hold  nothing  comfortably  except  a  dismal  smell,  looked  like 
the  last  result  of  the  great  mansion's  breeding  in-and-in;  and, 
where  their  little  supplementary  bows  and  balconies  were 
supported  on  iron  columns,  seemed  to  be  scrofulously  rest- 
ing upon  crutches.  Here  and  there  a  hatchment,  with  the 
whole  science  of  heraldry  in  it,  loomed  down  upon  the 
street,  like  an  archbishop  discoursing  on  vanity.  The  shops, 
few  in  number,  made  no  show;  for  popular  opinion  was  as 
nothing  to  them.  The  pastry  cook  knew  who  was  on  his 
books,  and  in  that  knowledge  could  be  calm,  with  a  few  glass 
cylinders  of  dowager  peppermint-drops  in  his  window,  and 
half-a-dozen  ancient  specimens  of  currant-jelly.  A  few 
oranges  formed  the  green-grocer's  whole  concession  to  the 
vulgar  mind.  A  single  basket  made  of  moss,  once  contain- 
ing plovers'  eggs,  held  all  that  the  poulterer  had  to  say  to 
the  rabble.  Every  body  in  those  streets  seemed  (which  is 
always  the  case  at  that  hour  and  season)  to  be  gone  out  to 
dinner,  and  nobody  seemed  to  be  giving  the  dinners  they  had 
gone  to.  On  the  doorsteps  there  were  lounging  footmen 
with  bright  particolored  plumage  and  white  polls,  like  an 
extinct  race  of  monstrous  birds;  and  butlers,  solitary 
men  of  recluse  demeanor,  each  of  whom  appeared  distrust- 
ful of  all  other  butlers.  The  roll  of  carriages  in  the  park 
was  done  for  the  day;  the  street  lamps  were  lighting;  and 
wicked    little    grooms    in    the    tightest    fitting    garments, 


330  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with  twists  in  their  legs  answering  to  the  twists  in  their 
minds,  hung  about  in  pairs,  chewing  straws  and  exchang- 
ing fraudulent  secrets.  The  spotted  dogs  who  went 
out  with  the  carriages,  and  who  were  so  associated 
with  splendid  equipages,  that  it  looked  like  a  conde- 
scension in  those  animals  to  come  out  without  them, 
accompanied  helpers  to  and  fro  on  messages.  Here  and  there 
was  a  retiring  public  house  which  did  not  require  to  be  sup- 
ported on  the  shoulders  of  the  people,  and  where  gentlemen 
out  of  livery  were  not  much  wanted. 

This  last  discovery  was  made  by  the  two  friends  in  pur- 
suing their  inquiries.  Nothing  was  there,  or  anywhere, 
known  of  such  a  person  as  Miss  Wade,  in  connection  with  the 
street  they  sought.  It  was  one  of  the  parasite  streets;  long, 
regular,  narrow,  dull,  and  gloomy,  like  a  brick  and  mortar 
funeral.  They  inquired  at  several  little  area  gates,  where  a 
dejected  youth  stood  spiking  his  chin  on  the  summit  of  a  pre- 
cipitous little  shoot  of  wooden  steps,  but  could  gain  no  in- 
formation. They  walked  up  the  street  on  one  side  of  the 
way,  and  down  it  on  the  other,  what  time  two  vociferous 
news-sellers,  announcing  an  extraordinary  event  that  had 
never  happened  and  never  would  happen,  pitched  their 
hoarse  voices  into  the  secret  chambers;  but  nothing  came  of 
it.  At  length  they  stood  at  the  corner  from  which  they 
had  begun,  and  it  had  fallen  quite  dark,  and  they  were  no 
wiser. 

It  happened  that  in  the  street  they  had  several  times 
passed  a  dingy  house,  apparently  empty,  with  bills  in  the  win- 
dows, announcing  that  it  was  to  let.  The  bills,  as  a  variety 
in  the  funeral  procession,  almost  amounted  to  a  decoration. 
Perhaps  because  they  kept  the  house  separate  in  his  mind,  or 
perhaps  because  Mr,  Meagles  and  himself  had  twice  agreed 
in  passing,  *'  It  is  clear  that  she  don't  live  there,"  Clennam 
now  proposed  that  they  should  go  back  and  try  the  house  be- 
fore finally  going  away.  Mr.  Meagles  agreed,  and  back  they 
went. 

They  knocked  once,  and  they  rang  once,  without  any  re- 
sponse. "  Empty,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  listening.  ''  Once 
more,"  said  Clennam,  and  knocked  again.  After  that 
knock  they  heard  a  movement  below,  and  somebody  shuffling 
up  toward  the  door. 

The  confined  entrance  was  so  dark  that  it  was  impossible 
to  make  out  distinctly  what  kind  of  person  opened  the  door; 
but  it  appeared  to  be  an  old  woman.  "  Excuse  our  troubling 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  331 

you,"  said  Clennam.  "  Pray  can  you  tell  us  where  Miss 
Wade  Jives  ?"  The  voice  in  the  darkness  unexpectedly  re- 
plied, "  Lives  here." 

"  Is  she  at  home  ?  '^ 

No  answer  coming,  Mr.  Meagles  asked  again.  **  Pray  is 
she  at  home  ?  " 

After  another  delay,  "  I  suppose  she  is,"  said  the  voice 
abruptly;  *'  You  had  better  come  in,  and  I'll  ask." 

They  were  summarily  shut  into  the  close  black  house;  and 
the  figure  rustling  away,  and  speaking  from  a  higher  level, 
said,  '^  Come  up,  if  you  please;  you  can't  tumble  over  any 
thing."  They  groped  their  way  up  stairs  toward  a  faint 
light,  which  proved  to  be  the  light  of  the  street  shining 
through  a  window;  and  the  figure  left  them  shut  up  in  an 
airless  room. 

"  This  is  odd,  Clennam,"  said  Mr.  IMeagles,  softly. 

"  Odd  enough,"  assented  Clennam,  in  the  same  tone, 
"  but  we  have  succeeded;  that's  the  main  poijjt.  Here's  a 
light  coming  !  '* 

The  light  was  a  lamp,  and  the  bearer  was  an  old  woman: 
very  dirty,  very  wrinkled  and  dry.  "  She's  at  home,"  she  said 
(and  the  voice  was  the  same  that  had  spoken  before)  ; 
"  she'll  come  directly."  Having  set  the  lamp  down  on  the 
table, the  old  woman  dusted  her  hands  on  her  apron,  which  she 
might  have  done  forever  without  cleaning  them,  looked  at 
the  visitors  with  a  dim  pair  of  eyes  and  backed  out. 

The  lady  wh«m  they  had  come  to  see,  if  she  were  the 
present  occupant  of  the  house,  appeared  to  have  taken  up 
her  quarters  there,  as  she  might  have  established  herself  in 
an  Eastern*  caravanserai.  A  small  square  of  carpet  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  a  few  articles  of  furniture  that  evidently 
did  not  belong  to  the  room,  and  a  disorder  of  trunks  and 
traveling  articles  formed  the  whole  of  her  surroundings. 
Under  some  former  regular  inhabitant,  the  stifling  little 
apartment  had  broken  out  into  a  pier-glass  and  a  gilt  table; 
but  the  gilding  was  as  faded  as  last  year's  flowers,  and  the 
glass  was  so  clouded  that  it  seemed  to  hold  in  magic  preser- 
vation all  the  fogs  and  bad  weather  it  had  ever  reflected. 
The  visitors  had  had  a  minute  or  two  to  look  about  them, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Miss  Wade  came  in. 

She  was  exactly  the  same  as  when  they  had  parted.  Just 
as  handsome,  just  as  scornful,  just  as  repressed.  She  mani- 
fested no  surprise  in  seeing  them,  nor  any  other  emotion. 
She  requested  them  to  be  seated;  and  declining  to  take    a 


332  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

seat  herself,  at  once  anticipated  any  introduction  of    their 
business. 

*^  I  apprehend,"  she  said,  "  that  I  know  the  cause  of  your 
favoring  me  with  this  visit.     We  may  come  to  it  at  once." 

"  The  cause  then,  ma'am,"  said  Mr„  Meagles,  "  is  Tatty- 
coram." 

"  So  I  supposed." 

"  Miss  Wade,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  *^  will  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  say  whether  you  know  any  thing  of  her  ?  " 

"  Surely.     I  know  she  is  here  with  me." 

"  Then,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  allow  me  to  make 
known  to  you  that  I  shall  be  happy  to  have  her  back,  and 
that  my  wife  and  daughter  will  be  happy  to  have  her  back. 
She  has  been  with  us  a  long  time  :  we  don't  forget  her  claims 
upon  us,  and  I  hope  we  know  how  to  make  allowances." 

" You  hope  to  know  how  to  make  allowances?"  she  re- 
turned, in  a  level,  measured  voice.     "  For  what  ? " 

"  I  think  my  friend  would  say.  Miss  Wade,"  Arthur  Clen- 
nam  interposed,  seeing  Mr.  Meagles  rather  at  a  loss,  "  for  the 
passionate  sense  that  sometimes  comes  upon  the  poor  girl, 
of  being  at  a  disadvantage.  Which  occasionally  gets  the 
better  of  better  remembrances." 

The  lady  broke  into  a  smile  as  she  turned  her  eyes  upon 
him.     *'  Indeed  !  "  was  all  she  answered. 

She  stood  by  the  table  so  perfectly  composed  and  still 
after  this  acknowledgment  of  his  remark,  that  Mr.  Meagles 
stared  at  her  under  a  sort  of  fascination,  ^nd  could  not 
even  look  to  Clennam  to  make  another  move.  After  wait- 
ing, awkwardly  enough  for  some  moments,  Arthur  said  : 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  well  if  Mr.  Meagles  could  see  her. 
Miss  Wade.*' 

"  That  is  easily  done,"  said  she.  "  Come  here,  child." 
She  had  opened  a  door  while  saying  this,  and  now  led  the 
girl  in  by  the  hand.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  them  stand- 
ing together  :  the  girl  with  her  disengaged  fingers  plaiting 
the  bosom  of  her  dress,  half  irresolutely  half  passionately  ; 
Miss  Wade  with  her  composed  face  attentively  regarding 
her,  and  suggesting  to  an  observer  with  extraordinary  force, 
in  her  composure  itself  (as  a  veil  will  suggest  the  form  it 
covers),  the  unquenchable  passion  of  her  own  nature. 

"  See  here,"  she  said,  in  the  same  level  way  as  before. 
"  Here  is  your  patron,  your  master.  He  is  willing  to  take 
you  back,  my  dear,  if  you  are  sensible  of  the  favor  and 
choose  to  go.     You  can  be,  again,  a  foil  to  his  pretty  daugh- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  333 

ter,  a  slave  to  her  pleasant  willfulness,  and  a  toy  in  the 
house  showing  the  goodness  of  the  family.  You  can  have 
your  droll  name  again,  playfully  pointing  you  out  and  setting 
you  apart,  as  it  is  right  that  you  should  be  pointed  out  and 
set  apart.  (Your  birth,  you  know  ;  you  must  not  forget 
your  birth.)  You  can  again  be  shown  to  this  gentleman's 
daughter,  Harriet,  and  kept  before  her,  as  a  living  reminder 
of  her  own  superiority  and  her  gracious  condescension. 
You  can  recover  all  these  advantages,  and  many  more  of 
the  same  kind  which  I  dare  say  start  up  in  your  memory 
while  I  speak,  and  which  you  lose  in  taking  refuge  with  me 
— you  can  recover  them  all,  by  telling  these  gentlemen  how 
humble  and  penitent  you  are;  and  by  going  back  to  them  to 
be  forgiven.     What  do  you  say,  Harriet  ?     Will  you  go  ?  " 

The  girl  who,  under  the  influence  of  these  words,  had 
gradually  risen  in  anger  and  heightened  in  color,  answered, 
raising  her  lustrous  black  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  clenching 
her  hands  upon  the  folds  it  had  been  puckering  up,  "  I'd 
die  sooner  !  " 

Miss  Wade,  still  standing  at  her  side  holding  her  hand, 
looked  quietly  around  and  said  with  a  smile,  "  Gentlemen  ! 
What  do  you  do  upon  that  ?  " 

Poor  Mr.  Meagles's  inexpressible  consternation  in  hearing 
his  motives  and  actions  so  perverted,  had  prevented  him 
from  interposing  any  word  until  now  ;  but  now  he  regained 
the  power  of  speeceh. 

"  Tattycoram,"  said  he,  "  for  I'll  call  you  by  that  name 
still,  my  good  girl,  conscious  that  I  mean  nothing  but  kind- 
ness when  I  gave  it  to  you,  and  conscious  that  you  knew 
it " 

"  I  don't  !  "  said  she,  looking  up  again,  and  almost  rending 
herself  with  the  same  busy  hand. 

"  No,  not  now,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  ;  "  not  with 
that  lady's  eyes  so  intent  upon  you,  Tattycoram,"  she 
glanced  at  them  for  a  moment,  "  and  that  power  over  you 
which  we  see  she  exercises  ;  not  now,  perhaps,  but  at  an- 
other time.  Tattycoram,  I'll  not  ask  that  lady  whether  she 
beheves  what  she  has  said,  even  in  the  anger  and  ill  blood 
in  which  I  and  my  friend  here  equally  know  she  has  spoken, 
though  she  subdues  herself  with  a  determination  that  any 
one  w>ho  has  once  seen  her  is  not  likely  to  forget.  I'll  not 
ask  you,  with  your  remembrances  of  my  house  and  all  be- 
longing to  it,  whether  you  believe  it.  I'll  only  say  that  you 
have  no  profession  to  make  me  or  mine,  and  no  forgiveness 


334  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

to  entreat  ;  and  that  all  in  the  world  that  I  ask  you  to  do,  is 
to  count  five-and-twenty,  Tattycoram. 

She  looked  at  him  for  an  instant,  and  then  said  frown- 
ingly,  "  I  won't.     Miss  Wade,  take  me  away,  please." 

The  contention  that  raged  within  her  had  no  softening  in 
it  now  ;  it  was  wholly  between  passionate  defiance  and  stub- 
born defiance.  Her  rich  color,  her  quick  blood,  her  rapid 
breath,  were  all  setting  themselves  against  the  opportunity  of 
retracing  her  steps.  "  I  won't.  I  won't.  I  won't !  "  she 
repeated  in  a  low,  thick  voice.  "  I'd  be  torn  to  pieces  first. 
I'd  tear  myself  to  pieces  first !  " 

Miss  Wade,  who  had  released  her  hold,  laid  her  hand  pro- 
tectingly  on  the  girl's  neck  for  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
looking  round  her  with  her  former  smile,  and  speaking 
exactly  in  her  former  tone,  ^*  Gentlemen  !  What  do  you  do 
upon  that  ?  " 

**  Oh,  Tattycoram,  Tattycoram  ! "  cried  Mr.  Meagles,  ad- 
juring her  besides  with  an  earnest  hand.  "  Hear  that  lady's 
voice,  look  at  that  lady's  face,  consider  what  is  in  that  lady's 
heart,  and  think  what  a  future  lies  before  you.  My  child, 
whatever  you  may  think,  that  lady's  influence  over  you — 
astonishing  to  us,  and  I  should  hardly  go  too  far  in  saying 
terrible  to  us,  to  see — is  founded  in  passion  fiercer  than  yours 
and  temper  more  violent  than  yours.  What  can  you  two  be 
together  ?     What  can  come  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  alone  here,  gentlemen,"  observed  Miss  Wade,  with 
no  change  of  voice  or  manner.     "  Say  any  thing  you  will." 

*^  Politeness  must  yield  to  this  misguided  girl,  ma'am," 
said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  at  her  present  pass  ;  though  I  hope  not 
altogether  to  dismiss  it,  even  with  the  injury  you  do  her  so 
strongly  before  me.  Excuse  me  for  reminding  you  in  her 
hearing — I  must  say  it — that  you  were  a  mystery  to  all  of  us, 
and  had  nothing  in  common  with  any  of  us,  when  she  unfor- 
tunately fell  in  your  way.  I  don't  know  what  you  are,  but 
you  don't  hide,  can't  hide,  what  a  dark  spirit  you  have  within 
you.  If  it  should  happen  that  you  are  a  woman,  who,  from 
whatever  cause,  has  a  perverted  delight  in  making  a  sister- 
woman  as  wretched  as  she  is  (I  am  old  enough  to  have  heard 
of  such),  I  warn-  her  against  you,  and  I  warn  you  against 
yourself." 

"Gentlemen!"  said  Miss  Wade,  calmly.  "When  you 
have  concluded — Mr.  Clennam,  perhaps  you  will  induce  your 
friend " 

"  Not  without  another  effort,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  stoutly 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  335 

**  Tattycoram,  my  poor,  dear  girl,  count  five-and- 
twenty." 

*'  Do  not  reject  the  hope,  the  certainty,  this  kind  man  offers 
you,"  said  Clennam,  in  a  low  emphatic  voice.  "  Turn  to  the 
friends  you  have  not  forgotten.     Think  once  more  ! " 

**  I  won't !  Miss  Wade,"  said  the  girl,  with  her  bosom 
swelling  high,  and  speaking  with  her  hand  held  to  her  throat, 
"  take  me  away  !  " 

*'  Tattycoram,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  Once  more  yet ! 
The  only  thing  I  ask  of  you  in  this  world,  my  child  !  Count 
five-and-twenty  !  " 

She  put  her  hands  tightly  over  her  ears,  confusedly  tum- 
bling down  her  bright  black  hair  in  the  vehemence  of  the 
action,  and  turned  her  face  resolutely  to  the  wall*.  Miss 
Wade  who  had  watched  her  under  this  final  appeal  with  that 
strange  attentive  smile,  and  that  repressing  hand  upon  her 
own  bosom,  with  which  she  had  watched  her  in  her  struggle 
at  Marseilles,  then  put  her  arm  about  her  waist  as  if  she  took 
possession  of  her  for  evermore. 

And  there  was  a  visible  triumph  in  her  face  when  she 
turned  it  to  dismiss  the  visitors. 

**  As  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  have  this  honor,"  she  said, 
"  and  as  you  have  spoken  of  not  knowing  what  I  am,  and 
also  of  the  foundation  of  my  influence  here,  you  may  now 
know  that  it  is  founded  in  a  common  cause.  What  your 
broken  plaything  is  as  to  birth,  I  am.  She  has  no  name,  I 
have  no  name.  Her  wrong  is  my  wrong.  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say  to  you." 

This  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Meagles,  who  sorrowfully  went 
out.  As  Clennam  followed,  she  said  to  him,  with  the  same 
external  composure  and  in  the  same  level  voice,  but  with  a 
smile  that  is  only  seen  on  cruel  faces  :  a  very  faint  smile, 
lifting  the  nostril,  scarcely  touching  the  lips,  and  not  break- 
ing away  gradually,  but  instantly  dismissed  when  done  with  : 

"  I  hope  the  wife  of  your  dear  friend,  Mr.  Gowan,  may  be 
happy  in  the  contrast  of  her  extraction  to  this  girl's  and 
mine,  and  in  the  high  good  fortune  that  awaits  her." 


336  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

nobody's  disappearance. 

Not  resting  satisfied  with  the  endeavors  he  had  made  to 
recover  his  lost  charge,  Mr.  Meagles  addressed  a  letter  of  re- 
monstrance, breathing  nothing  but  goodwill,  not  only  to  her, 
but  to  Miss  Wade  too.  No  answer  coming  to  these  epistles, 
or  to  another  written  to  the  stubborn  girl,  by  the  hand  of  her 
late  young  mistress,  which  might  have  melted  her  if  any  thing 
could  (all  three  letters  were  returned  weeks  afterward  as 
having  been  refused  at  the  house-door),  he  deputed  Mrs. 
Meagles  to  make  the  experiment  of  a  personal  interview. 
That  worthy  lady  being  unable  to  obtain  one,  and  being 
steadfastly  denied  admission,  Mr.  Meagles  besought  Arthur 
to  essay  once  more  what  he  could  do.  All  that  came  of  his 
compliance  was,  his  discovery  that  the  empty  house  was  left 
in  charge  of  the  old  woman,  that  Miss  Wade  was  gone,  that 
the  waifs  and  strays  of  furniture  were  gone,  and  that  the  old 
woman  would  accept  any  number  of  halfcrowns  and  thank 
the  donor  kindly,  but  had  no  information  whatever  to 
exchange  for  those  coins,  beyond  constantly  offering  for  pe- 
rusal a  memorandum  relative  to  fixtures,  which  the  house- 
agent's  young  man  had  left  in  the  hall. 

JJnwilling,  even  under  this  discomfiture,  to  resign  the 
ingrate  and  leave  her  hopeless,  in  case  of  her  better  disposi- 
tions obtaining  the  mastery  over  the  darker  side  of  her  char- 
acter, Mr.  Meagles,  for  six  successive  days,  published  a  dis- 
creetly covert  advertisement  in  the  morning  papers,  to  the 
effect  that  if  a  certain  young  person  who  had  lately  left  home 
without  reflection,  would  at  any  time  apply  at  his  address  at 
Twickenham,  every  thing  would  be  as  it  had  been  before,  a.rA 
no  reproaches  need  be  apprehended.  The  unexpected  con- 
sequences of  this  notification,  suggested  to  the  dismayed  Mr. 
Meagles  for  the  first  time,  that  some  hundreds  of  young  per- 
sons must  be  leaving  their  homes  without  reflection,  every 
day  ;  for,  shoals  of  wrong  young  people  came  down  to  Twick- 
enham, who,  not  finding  themselves  received  with  enthusiasm, 
generally  demanded  a  compensation  by  way  of  damages,  in 
addition  to  coach  hire  there  and  back.  Nor  were  these  the 
only  uninvited  clients  whom  the  advertisement  produced. 
The  swarms  of  begging-letter  writers,  who  would  seem  to  be 
always  watching  eagerly  for  any  hook,  however  small,  to  hang 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  337 

a  letter  upon,  wrote  to  say,  that  having  seen  the  advertise- 
ment, they  were  induced  to  apply  with  confidence  for  various 
sums,  ranging  from  ten  shillings  to  fifty  pounds  ;  not  because 
they  knew  any  thing  about  the  young  person,  but  because 
they  felt  that  to  part  with  those  donations  would  greatly 
relieve  the  advertiser's  mind.  Several  projectors,  likewise, 
availed  themselves  of  the  same  opportunity  to  correspond 
with  Mr.  Meagles  ;  as,  for  example,  to  apprise  him  that  their 
attention  having  been  called  to  the  advertisement  by  a  friend, 
they  begged  to  state  that  if  they  should  ever  hear  any  thing 
of  the  young  person,  they  would  not  fail  to  make  it  known 
to  him  immediately,  and  that  in  the  mean  time  if  he  would 
oblige  them  with  the  funds  necessary  for  bringing  to  perfec- 
tion a  certain  entirely  novel  description  of  pump,  the  hap- 
piest results  would  ensue  to  mankind. 

Mr.  Meagles  and  his  family,  under  these  combined  dis- 
couragements, had  begun  reluctantly  to  give  up  Tattycorani 
as  irrecoverable,  when  the  new  and  active  firm  of  Doyce 
and  Clennam,  in  their  private  capacities,  went  down  on  a 
Saturday  to  stay  at  the  cottage  until  Monday.  The  senior 
partner  took  the  coach,  and  the  junior  partner  took  his  walk- 
ing-stick. 

A  tranquil  summer  sunset  shone  upon  him  as  he 
approached  the  end  of  his  walk,  and  passed  through  the 
meadows  by  the  river  side.  He  had  that  sense  of  peace,  and 
of  being  lightened  of  a  weight  of  care,  which  country  quiet 
awakens  in  the  breasts  of  dwellers  in  towns.  Every  thing 
within  his  view  was  lovely  and  placid.  The  rich  foliage  of 
the  trees,  the  luxuriant  grass  diversified  with  wild  flowers, 
the  little  green  islands  in  the  river,  the  beds  of  rushes,  the 
water-lilies  floating  on  the  surface  of  the  stream,  the  dis- 
tant voices  in  boats  borne  musically  toward  him  on  the  ripple 
of  the  water  and  the  evening  air,  were  all  expressive  of  rest. 
In  the  occasional  leap  of  a  fish,  or  dip  of  an  oar,  or  twitter- 
ing of  a  bird  not  yet  at  roost,  or  distant  barking  of  a  dog,  or 
lowing  of  a  cow — in  all  such  sounds,  there  was  the  prevail- 
ing breath  of  rest,  which  seemed  to  encompass  him  in  every 
scent  that  sweetened  the  fragrant  air.  The  long  lines  of  red 
and  gold  in  the  sky,  and  the  glorious  track  of  the  descending 
sun,  were  all  divinely  calm.  Upon  the  purple  tree-tops  far 
away,  and  on  the  green  height  near  at  hand  up  which  the 
shades  were  slowly  creeping,  there  was  an  equal  hush. 
Between  the  real  landscape  and  its  shadow  in  the  water, 
there  was  no  division;  both  were  so  untroubled  and  clear,  and 


338  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

while  so  fraught  with  solemn  mystery  of  life  and  death,  so 
hopefully  reassuring  to  the  gazer's  soothed  heart,  because  su 
tenderly  and  mercifully  beautiful. 

Clennam  had  stopped,  not  for  the  first  time  by  many  times, 
to  look  about  him  and  suffer  what  he  saw  to  sink  into  his 
soul,  as  the  shadows,  looked  at,  seemed  to  sink  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  water.  He  was  slowly  resuming  his  way, 
when  he  saw  a  figure  in  the  path  before  him  which  he  had, 
perhaps,  already  associated  with  the  evening  and  its  impres- 
sions. 

Minnie  was  there,  alone.  She  had  some  roses  in  her 
hand,  and  seemed  to  have  stood  still  on  seeing  him,  waiting 
for  him.  Her  face  was  toward  him,  and  she  appeared  to 
have  been  coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  There  was  a 
flutter  in  her  manner,  which  Clennam  had  never  seen  in  it 
before;  and  as  he  came  near  her,  it  entered  his  mind  all  at 
once  that  she  was  there  of  a  set  purpose  to  speak  tci 
him. 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said,  "  You  wonder  to  see  mo; 
here  by  myself  ?  But  the  evening  is  so  lovely,  I  have  strolled 
further  than  I  meant  at  first.  I  thought  it  likely  I  might 
meet  you,  and  that  made  me  more  confident.  You  always 
come  this  way,  do  you  not  ?  '* 

As  Clennam  said  that  it  was  his  favorite  way,  he  felt  hei 
hand  falter  on  his  arm,  and  saw  the  roses  shake. 

*^  Will  you  let  me  give  you  one,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  I  gathered 
them  as  I  came  out  of  the  garden.  Indeed,  I  almost  gathered 
them  for  you,  thinking  it  so  likely  I  might  meet  you.  Mr„ 
Doyce  arrived  more  than  an  hour  ago,  and  told  us  you  were 
walking  down." 

His  own  hand  shook,  as  he  accepted  a  rose  or  two  from 
hers,  and  thanked  her.  They  were  now  by  an  avenue  of 
trees.  Whether  they  turned  into  it  on  his  movement  or  on 
hers  matters  little.     He  never  knew  how  that  was. 

"  It  is  very  grave  here,"  said  Clennam,  "  but  very  pleasant 
at  this  hour.  Passing  along  this  deep  shade,  and  out  at  that 
arch  of  light  at  the  other  end,  we  come  upon  the  ferry  and 
the  cottage  by  the  best  approach,  I  think." 

In  her  simple  garden  hat  and  her  light  summer  dress,  with 
her  rich  brown  hair  naturally  clustering  about  her,  and  her 
wonderful  eyes  raised  to  his  for  a  moment,  with  a  look  in 
which  regard  for  him  and  trustfulness  in  him  were  strikingly 
blended  with  a  kind  of  timid  sorrow  for  him,  she  was  so 
beautiful,  that  it  was  well  for  his  peace — or  ill  for  his  peace, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  339 

he  did  not  quite  know  which — that  he  had  made  that  vigor- 
ous resolution  he  had  so  often  thought  about. 

She  broke  a  momentary  silence  by  inquiring  if  he  knew 
that  papa  had  been  thinking  of  another  tour  abroad  ?  He 
said  he  had  heard  it  mentioned.  She  broke  another  momen- 
tary silence  by  adding  with  some  hesitation  that  papa  had 
abandoned  the  idea. 

At  this,  he  thought  directly,  "  they  are  to  be  married." 

*'  Mr.  Clennam,"  she  said,  hesitating  more  timidly  yet,  and 
speaking  so  low  that  he  bent  his  head  to  hear  her.  *^  I 
should  very  much  like  to  give  you  my  confidence,  if  you 
would  not  mind  having  the  goodness  to  receive  it.  I  should 
have  very  much  liked  to  have  given  it  to  you  long  ago,  be- 
cause— I  felt  that  you  were  becoming  so  much  our  friend." 

"  How  can  I  be  otherwise  than  proud  of  it  at  any  time! 
Pray  give  it  to  me.     Pray  trust  me." 

"  I  could  never  have  been  afraid  of  trusting  you,"  she  re- 
turned, raising  her  eyes  frankly  to  his  face.  "  I  think  I  would 
have  done  so  some  time  ago,  if  I  had  known  how.  But  I 
scarcely  know  how,  even  now." 

"  Mr.  Gowan,"  said  Arthur  Clennam,  **  has  reason  to  be 
very  happy.     God  bless  his  wife  and  him!  " 

She  wept,  as  she  tried  to  thank  him.  He  reassured  her, 
took  her  hand  as  it  lay  with  the  trembling  roses  in  it  on  his 
arm,  took  the  remaining  roses  from  it,  and  put  it  to  his  lips;. 
At  that  time,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  first  finally. resigned  the 
dying  hope  that  had  flickered  in  nobody's  heart  so  much  to 
its  pain  and  trouble;  and  from  that  time  he  became  in  his 
own  eyes,  as  to  any  similar  hope  or  prospect,  a  very  much 
older  man  who  had  done  with  that  part  of  life. 

He  put  the  roses  in  his  breast  and  they  walked  on  for  a 
little  while,  slowly  and  silently,  under  the  umbrageous  trees. 
Then  he  asked  her,  in  a  voice  of  cheerful  kindness,  was  there 
any  thing  else  that  she  would  say  to  him  as  her  friend  and 
her  father's  friend,  many  years  older  than  herself;  was  there 
any  trust  she  would  repose  in  him,  any  service  she  would  ask 
of  him,  any  little  aid  to  her  happiness  that  she  could  give 
him  the  last  gratification  of  believing  it  was  in  his  power  to 
render  ? 

She  was  going  to  answer,  when  she  was  so  touched  by 
some  little  hidden  sorrow  or  sympathy — what  could  it  have 
been? — that  she  said,  bursting  into  tears  again;  ''Oh,  Mr. 
Clennam  !  Good,  generous,  Mr.  Clennam,  pray  tell  me  you 
do  not  blame  me." 


340  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  I  blame  you  ?"  said  Clennam.  "  My  dearest  girl !  I 
blame  you  ?     No  !  " 

After  clasping  both  her  hands  upon  his  arm,  and  looking 
confidentially  up  into  his  face,  with  some  hurried  words  to 
the  effect  that  she  thanked  him  from  her  heart  (as  she  did,  if 
it  be  the  source  of  earnestness),  she  gradually  composed  her- 
self, with  now  and  then  a  word  of  encouragement  from  him, 
as  they  walked  on  slowly,  and  almost  silently  under  the 
darkening  trees. 

"  And,  now,  Minnie  Gowan,"  at  length  said  Clennam, 
smiling;  "  will  you  ask  me  nothing  ?  " 

'^  Oh  !     I  have  very  much  to  ask  of  you." 

*'  That's  well !     I  hope  so;  I  am  not  disappointed." 

*'  You  know  how  I  am  loved  at  home,  and  how  I  love 
home.  You  can  hardly  think  it  perhaps,  dear  Mr.  Clennam,** 
she  spoke  with  great  agitation,  ^'  seeing  me  going  from  it  of 
my  own  free  will  and  choice,  but  I  do  so  dearly  love  it  !  '* 

^*  I  am  sure  of  that,"  said  Clennam.  "  Can  you  suppose  I 
doubt  it.^" 

*^  No,  no.  But  it  is  strange,  even  to  me,  that  loving  it  so 
much  and  being  so  much  beloved  in  it,  I  can  bear  to  cast  it 
away.     It  seems  so  neglectful  of  it,  so  unthankful." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Clennam,  "it  is  in  the  natural  prog- 
ress and  change  of  time.     All  homes  are  left  so." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  all  homes  are  not  left  with  such  a 
blank  in  them  as  there  will  be  in  mine  when  I  am  gone. 
Not  that  there  is  any  scarcity  of  far  better  and  more  endear- 
ing and  more  accomplished  girls  than  I  am;  not  that  I  am 
much;  but  that  they  have  made  so  much  of  me  !  " 

Pet's  affectionate  heart  was  overcharged,  and  she  sobbed 
while  she  pictured  what  would  happen. 

"  I  know  what  a  change  papa  will  feel  at  first,  and  I  know 
that  at  first  I  can  not  be  to  him  any  thing  like  what  I  have 
been  these  many  years.  And  it  is  then,  Mr.  Clennam,  then 
more  than  at  any  time,  that  I  beg  and  entreat  you  to  remem- 
ber him,  and  sometimes  to  keep  him  company  when  you  can 
spare  a  little  while;  and  to  tell  him  that  you  know  I  was 
fonder  of  him,  when  I  left  him,  than  I  ever  was  in  all  my 
life.  For  there  is  nobody — he  told  me  so  himself  when  he 
talked  to  me  this  very  day — there  is  nobody  he  likes  so  well 
as  you,  or  trusts  so  much." 

A  clew  to  v/hat  had  passed  between  the  father  and 
daughter  dropped  like  a  heavy  stone  into  the  well  of  Olen- 
nam's  heart,  and  swelled  the  water  to  his  eyes.     He  said, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  341 

cheerily,  but  not  quite  so  cheerily  as  he  tried  to  say,  that  it 
should  be  done;  that  he  gave  her  his  faithful  promise. 

"  If  I  do  not  speak  of  mamma,"  said  Pet,  more  moved  by, 
and  more  pretty  in,  her  innocent  grief,  than  Clennam  could 
trust  himself  even  now  to  consider — for  which  reason  he 
counted  the  trees  between  them  and  the  fading  light  as  they 
slowly  diminished  in  number — *'  it  is  because  mamma  will 
understand  me  better  in  this  action,  and  will  feel  my  loss  in 
a  different  way,  and  will  look  forward  in  a  different  manner. 
But  you  know  what  a  dear,  devoted  mother  she  is,  and  you 
will  remember  her,  too;  will  you  not  ?  " 

Let  Minnie  trust  him,  Clennam  said,  let  Minnie  trust  him 
to  do  all  she  wished. 

^^  And,  dear  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  Minnie,  "because  papa 
and  one  whom  I  need  not  name,  do  not  fully  appreciate  and 
understand  one  another  yet,  as  they  will  by  and  by;  and 
because  it  will  be  the  duty,  and  the  pride,  and  pleasure  of 
my  new  life,  to  draw  them  to  a  better  knowledge  of  one 
another  and  to  be  a  happiness  to  one  another,  and  to  be 
proud  of  one  another,  and  to  love  one  another,  both  loving 
me  so  dearly  ;  oh,  as  you  are  a  kind,  true  man  !  when  I 
am  first  separated  from  home  (I  am  going  a  long  distance 
away),  try  to  reconcile  papa  to  him  a  little  more,  and  use 
your  great  influence  to  keep  him  before  papa's  mind,,  free 
from  prejudice  and  in  his  real  form.  Will  you  do  this  for 
me,  as  you  are  a  noble-hearted  friend  ? " 

Poor  Pet !  Self-deceived,  mistaken  child  !  When  were 
such  changes  ever  made  in  men's  natural  relations  to  one 
another:  when  was  such  reconcilement  of  in'grain  differences 
ever  effected  !  It  has  been  tried  many  times  by  other 
daughters,  Minnie;  it  has  never  succeeded:  nothing  has 
ever  come  of  it  but  failure. 

So  Clennam  thought.  So  he  did  not  say;  it  was  too  late. 
He  bound  himself  to  do  all  she  asked,  and  she  knew  full 
well  that  he  would  do  it. 

They  were  now  at  the  last  tree  in  the  avenue.  She 
stopped,  and  withdrew  her  arm.  Speaking  to  him  with  her 
eyes  lifted  up  to  his,  and  with  the  hand  that  had  lately  rested 
on  his  sleeve  tremblingly  touching  one  of  the  roses  in  his 
breast  as  an  additional  appeal  to  him,  she  said: 

"  Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  in  my  happiness — for  I  am  happy, 
though  you  have  seen  me  crying — I  can  not  bear  to  leave 
any  cloud  between  us.  If  you  have  any  thing  to  forgive 
me  (not  any  thing  that  I  have  willfully  done,  but  any  trouble 


342  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

I  may  have  caused  you  without  meaning  it,  or  having  it  in 
my  power  to  help  it),  forgive  me  to-night  out  of  your  noble 
heart  !  " 

He  stooped  to  meet  the  guileless  face  that  met  his  without 
shrinking.  He  kissed  it,  and  answered,  Heaven  knew  that  he 
had  nothing  to  forgive.  As  he  stooped  to  meet  the  innocent 
face  once  again,  she  whispered  ^'  Good-by!"  and  he  repeated 
it.  It  was  taking  leave  of  all  his  own  hopes — all  nobody's 
old  restless  doubts.  They  came  out  of  the  avenue  next 
moment,  arm-in-arm  as  they  had  entered  it;  and  the  trees 
seemed  to  close  up  behind  them  in  the  darkness,  like  their 
own  perspective  of  the  past. 

The  voices  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles,  and  Doyce,  were 
audible  directly,  speaking  near  the  garden  gate.  Hearing 
Pet's  name  among  them,  Clennam  called  out,  '^  She  is  here, 
with  me."  There  was  some  little  wondering  and  laughing 
until  they  came  up;  but  as  soon  as  they  had  all  come 
together,  it  ceased,  and  Pet  glided  away. 

Mr.  Meagles,  Doyce,  and  Clennam,  without  speaking, 
walked  up  and  down  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  in  the  light 
of  the  rising  moon,  for  a  few  minutes;  and  then  Doyce 
lingered  behind,  and  went  into  the  house.  Mr.  Meagles 
and  Clennam  walked  up  and  down  together  for  a  few  min- 
utes more  without  speaking,  until  at  length  the  former  broke 
silencCo 

^'  Arthur,"  said  he,  using  that  familiar  address  for  the 
first  time  in  their  communication,  ^'  do  you  remember 
my  telling  you,  as  we  walked  up  and  down  one  hot 
morning,  looking  over  the  harbor  of  Marseilles,  that  Pet's 
baby  sister  who  was  dead  seemed  to  mother  and  me  to 
have  grown  as  she  had  grown,  and  changed  as  she  had 
changed  ?  " 

"Very  well." 

"  You  remember  my  saying  that  our  thoughts  had  never 
been  able  to  separate  those  twin  sisters,  and  that  in  our  fancy 
whatever  Pet  was,  the  other  was  ?  " 

**  Yes,  very  well." 

"  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  much  subdued,  "  I  carry  that 
fancy  further  to-night.  I  feel  to-night,  my  dear  fellow,  as  if 
you  had  loved  my  dead  child  very  tenderly,  and  had  lost  her 
when  she  was  like  what  Pet  is  now." 

"Thank  you  !"  murmured  Clennam,  "  thank  you  !  "  And 
pressed  his  hand. 

''Will  you  come  in  ?"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  presently. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  343 

*'Ina  little  while.*' 

Mr.  Meagles  fell  away,  and  he  was  left  alone.  When  he 
had  walked  on  the  river's  brink  in  the  peaceful  moonlight  for 
some  half  an  hour,  he  put  his  hand  in  his  breast  and  ten- 
derly took  out  a  handful  of  roses.  Perhaps  he  put  them  to 
his  heart,  perhaps  he  put  them  to  his  lips,  but  certainly  he 
bent  down  on  the  shore,  and  gently  launched  them  on  the 
flowing  river.  Pale  and  unreal  in  the  moonlight,  the  river 
floated  them  away. 

The  lights  were  bright  within  doors  when  he  entered,  and 
the  faces  on  which  they  shone,  his  own  face  not  excepted, 
were  soon  quite  cheerful.  They  talked  of  many  subjects 
(his  partner  never  had  had  such  a  ready  store  to  draw  upon 
for  the  beguiling  of  the  time),  and  so  to  bed,  and  to  sleep. 
While  the  flowers,  pale  and  unreal  in  the  moonlight,  floated 
away  upon  the  river;  and  thus  do  greater  things  than  once 
were  in  our  breasts,  and  near  our  hearts,  flow  from  us  to  the 
eternal  seas. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MRS.    FLINTWINCH    GOES   ON   DREAMING. 

The  house  in  the  city  preserved  its  heavy  dullness 
through  all  these  transactions,  and  the  invalid  within  it 
turned  the  same  unvarying  round  of  life.  Morning,  noon 
and  night,  morning,  noon  and  night,  each  recurring  with  its 
accompanying  monotony,  always  the  same  reluctant  return 
of  the  same  sequences  of  machinery,  like  the  dragging  piece 
of  clockwork. 

The  wheeled  chair  had  its  associated  remembrances  and 
reveries,  one  may  suppose,  as  every  place  that  is  made 
the  station  of  a  human  being  has.  Pictures  of  demol- 
ished streets  and  altered  houses,  as  they  formerly  were 
when  the  occupant  of  the  chair  was  familiar  with  them; 
images  of  people  as  they  too  used  to  be,  with  little  or  no 
allowance  made  for  the  lapse  of  time  since  they  were 
seen;  of  these,  there  must  have  been  many  in  the  long 
routine  of  gloomy  days.  To  stop  the  clock  of  busy  exist- 
ence at  the  hour  when  we  were  personally  sequestered  from 
it;  to  suppose  mankind  stricken  motionless,  when  we 
were  brought  to  a  stand-still;  to  be  unable  to  measure  the 
changes  beyond  our  view  by  any  larger  standard   than  the 


344  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

shrunken  one  of  our  own  uniform  and  contracted  existence; 
is  the  infirmity  of  many  invalids,  and  the  mental  unhealthi- 
ness  of  almost  all  recluses. 

What  scenes  and  actors  the  stern  woman  most  reviewed, 
as  she  sat  from  season  to  season  in  her  one  dark  room,  none 
knew  but  herself.  Mr.  Flintwinch,  with  his  wry  presence 
brought  to  bear  upon  her  daily  like  some  eccentric  mechani- 
cal force,  would  perhaps  have  screwed  it  out  of  her,  if  there 
had  been  less  resistance  in  her  ;  but  she  was  too  strong  for 
him.  So  far  as  Mistress  Affery  was  concerned,  to  regard 
her  liege-lord  and  her  disabled  mistress  with  a  face  of  blank 
wonder,  to  go  about  the  house  after  dark  with  her  apron  over 
her  head,  always  to  listen  for  the  strange  noises  and  some- 
times to  hear  them,  and  never  to  emerge  from  her  ghostly, 
dreamy,  sleep-waking  state,  was  occupation  enough  for  her. 

There  was  a  fair  stroke  of  business  doing,  as  Mistress 
Affrey  made  out,  for  her  husband  had  abundant  occupation 
in  his  little  office,  and  saw  more  people  than  had  been  used 
to  come  there  for  some  years.  This  might  easily  be,  the 
house  having  been  long  deserted  ;  but  he  did  receive  letters, 
and  comers,  and  keep  books,  and  correspond.  Moreover,  he 
went  about  to  other  counting-houses,  and  to  wharves,  and 
docks,  and  to  the  Custom  House,  and  to  Garraway's  Coffee 
House,  and  the  Jerusalem  Coffee  House,  and  on  'Change  ; 
so  that  he  was  much  in  and  out.  He  began,  too,  sometimes 
of  an  evening,  when  Mrs.  Clennam  expressed  no  particular 
wish  for  his  society,  to  resort  to  a  tavern  in  the  neighborhood 
to  look  at  the  shipping  news  and  closing  prices  in  the  evening 
paper,  and  even  to  exchange  small  socialities  with  mercantile 
sea  captains  who  frequented  that  establishment.  At  some 
period  of  every  day,  he  and  Mrs.  Clennam  held  a  council  on 
matters  of  business  ;  and  it  appeared  to  Affery,  who  was 
always  groping  about,  listening  and  watching,  that  the  two 
clever  ones  were  making  money. 

The  state  of  mind  into  which  Mr.  Flintwinch's  dazed  lady 
had  fallen,  had  now  begun  to  be  so  expressed  in  all  her  looks 
and  actions,  that  she  was  held  in  very  low  account  by  the 
two  clever  ones,  as  a  person,  never  of  strong  intellect,  who 
was  becoming  foolish.  Perhaps  because  her  appearance  was 
not  of  a  commercial  cast,  or  perhaps  because  it  occurred  to 
him  that  his  having  taken  her  to  wife  might  expose  his  judg- 
ment to  doubt  in  the  minds  of  customers,  Mr.  Flintwinch 
laid  his  commands  upon  her  that  she  should  hold  her  peace 
on  the  subject  of  her  conjugal  relations,  and  should  no  longer 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  345 

call  him  Jeremiah  out  of  the  domestic  trio.  Her  frequent 
forgetfulness  of  this  admonition  intensified  her  startled  man- 
ner, since  Mr.  Flintwinch's  habit  of  avenging  himself  on  her 
remissness  by  making  springs  after  her  on  the  staircase,  and 
shaking  her,  occasioned  her  to  be  always  nervously  uncer- 
tain when  she  might  be  thus  waylaid  next. 

Little  Dorrit  had  finished  a  long  day's  work  in  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam's  room,  and  was  neatly  gathering  up  her  shreds  and  odds 
and  ends  before  going  home.  Mr.  Pancks,  whom  Affery  had 
just  shown  in,  was  addressing  an  inquiry  to  Mrs.  Clennam 
on  the  subject  of  her  health,  coupled  with  the  remark  that, 
"  happening  to  find  himself  in  that  direction,"  he  had  looked 
in  to  inquire,  on  behalf  of  his  proprietor,  how  she  found  her- 
self. Mrs.  Clennam,  with  a  deep  contraction  of  her  brows, 
was  looking  at  him. 

"  Mr.  Casby  knows,"  said  she,  "  that  I  am  not  subject  to 
changes.     The  change  that  I  await  here  is  the  great  change." 

"  Indeed,  ma'am  ?  "  returned  Mr.  Pancks,  with  a  wander- 
ing eye  toward  the  figure  of  the  little  seamstress  on  her  knee 
picking  threads  and  fraying  of  her  work  from  the  carpet. 
"  You  look  nicely,  ma'am." 

**  I  bear  what  I  have  to  bear,"  she  answered.  "  Do  you 
what  you  have  to  do." 

*'  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  ^'  such  is  my  en- 
deavor." 

"  You  are  often  in  this  direction,  are  you  not?"  asked 
Mrs.  Clennam. 

**  Why,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Pancks,  "  rather  so  lately  ;  I 
have  lately  been  round  this  way  a  good  deal,  owing  to  one 
thing  and  another." 

'*  Beg  Mr.  Casby  and  his  daughter  not  to  trouble  them- 
selves, by  deputy,  about  me.  When  they  wish  to  see  me, 
they  know  I  am  here  to  see  them.  They  have  no  need  to 
trouble  themselves  to  send.  You  have  no  need  to  trouble 
yourself  to  come." 

**  Not  the  least  trouble,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Pancks.  **  You 
really  are  looking  uncommonly  nicely,  ma'am." 

''  Thank  you.     Good-evening." 

The  dismissal,  and  its  accompanying  finger  pointed  straight 
at  the  door,  was  so  curt  and  direct  that  Mr.  Pancks  did  not 
see  his  way  to  prolonging  his  visit.  He  stirred  up  his  hair 
with  his  sprightliest  expression,  glanced  at  the  little  figure 
again,  said  ''  Good-evening,  ma'am  ;  don't  come  down,  Mrs. 
Affery  ;  I  know   the  road  to  the  door,'*  and  steamed  out. 


346  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mrs.  Clennam,  her  chin  resting  on  her  hand,  followed  him 
with  attentive  and  darkly  distrustful  eyes  ;  and  Affery  stood 
looking  at  her,  as  if  she  were  spell-bound. 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully,  Mrs.  Clennam's  eyes  turned  from 
the  door  by  which  Pancks  had  gone  out,  to  Little  Dorrit, 
rising  from  the  carpet.  With  her  chin  drooping  more  heav- 
ily on  her  hand,  and  her  eyes  vigilant  and  lowering,  the 
sick  woman  sat  looking  at  her  until  she  attracted  her  atten- 
tion. Little  Dorrit  colored  under  such  a  gaze,  and  looked 
down.     Mrs.  Clennam  still  sat  intent. 

**  Little  Dorrit,"  she  said,  when  she  at  last  broke  silence, 
*'  what  do  you  know  of  that  man  ?  " 

''  I  don't  know  any  thing  of  him,  ma'am,  except  that  I 
have  seen  him  about,  and  that  he  has  spoken  tome." 

"  What  has  he  said  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  what  he  has  said,  he  is  so  strange. 
But  nothing  rough  or  disagreeable." 

''  Why  does  he  come  here  to  see  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  ma'am,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  with  perfect 
frankness. 

^'  You  know  that  he  does  come  here  to  see  you  ?  " 

*^  I  have  fancied  so,"  said  Little  Dorrit.  ^'  But  why  he 
should  come  here  or  anywhere,  for  that,  ma'am,  I  can't  think." 

Mrs.  Clennam  cast  her  eyes  toward  the  ground,  and  with 
her  strong,  set  face,  as  intent  upon  a  subject  in  her  mind  as 
it  had  lately  been  upon  the  form  that  seemed  to  pass  out  of 
her  view,  sat  absorbed.  Some  minutes  clasped  before  she 
came  out  of  this  thoughtfulness,  and  resumed  her  hard  com- 
posure. 

Little  Dorrit  in  the  meanwhile  had  been  waiting  to  go, 
but  afraid  to  disturb  her  by  moving.  She  now  ventured  to 
leave  the  spot  where  she  had  been  standing  since  she  had 
risen,  and  to  pass  gently  round  by  the  wheeled  chair.  She 
stopped  at  its  side  to  say  ''  Good-night,  ma'am." 

Mrs.  Clennam  put  out  her  hand,  and  laid  it  on  her  arm. 
Little  Dorrit,  confused  under  the  touch,  stood  faltering. 
Perhaps  some  momentary  recollection  of  the  story  of  the 
princess  may  have  been  in  her  mind. 

"  Tell  me,  Little  Dorrit,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  "  have  you 
many  friends  now  ?  " 

''  Very  few,  ma'am.  Besides  you,  only  Miss  Flora  and — 
one  more." 

"  Meaning,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  with  her  unbent  finger 
again  pointing  to  the  door,  *'  that  man  ?  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  347 

**  Oh  no,  ma'am  !  " 

''  Some  friend  of  his,  perhaps  ?  " 

**  No,  ma'am."  Little  Dorrit  earnestly  shook  her  head. 
^^  Oh  no  !     No  one  at  all  like  him,  or  belonging  to  him." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  almost  smiling.  "  It  is  no 
affair  of  mine.  I  ask  because  I  take  an  interest  in  you  ;  and 
because  I  believe  I  was  your  friend,  when  you  had  no  other 
who  could  serve  you.     Is  that  so  ? " 

"Yes,  ma'am  ;  indeed  it  is.  I  have  been  here  many  a 
time  when,  but  for  you  and  the  work  you  gave  me,  we  should 
have  wanted  every  thing." 

"  We,"  repeated  Mrs.  Clennam,  looking  toward  the  watch, 
once  her  dead  husband's,  which  always  lay  upon  her  table. 
''  Are  there  many  of  you  ?  " 

"  Only  father  and  I,  now.  I  mean,  only  father  and  I  to 
keep  regularly  out  of  what  we  get." 

"  Have  you  undergone  many  privations  ?  You  and  your 
father,  and  who  else  there  may  be  of  you  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Clennam,  speaking  deliberately,  and  meditatively  turning 
the  watch  over  and  over. 

"  Sometimes  it  has  been  rather  hard  to  live,"  said  Little 
Dorrit,  in  her  soft  voice,  and  timid  uncomplaining  way  ; 
**but  I  think  not  harder — as  to  that — than  many  people 
find  it." 

*^  That's  well  said  !  "  Mrs.  Clennam  quickly  returned. 
*^  That's  the  truth  !  You  are  a  good,  thoughtful  girl.  You 
are  a  grateful  girl  too,  or  I  much  mistake  you." 

"  It  is  only  natural  to  be  that.  There  is  no  merit  in  being 
that,"  said  Little  Dorrit.     "  I  am  indeed." 

Mrs.  Clennam,  with  a  gentleness  of  which  the  dreaming 
Affery  had  never  dreamed  her  to  be  capable,  drew  down 
the  face  of  her  little  seamstress,  and  kissed  her  on  her 
forehead. 

"  Now  go,  Little  Dorrit,"  said  she,  "  or  you  will  be  late, 
poor  child  !  " 

In  all  the  dreams  Mistress  Affery  had  been  piling  up 
since  she  first  became  devoted  to  the  pursuit,  she  had 
dreamed  nothing  more  astonishing  than  this.  Her  head 
ached  with  the  idea  that  she  would  find  the  other  clever  one 
kissing  Little  Dorrit  next,  and  then  the  two  clever  ones 
embracing  each  other  and  dissolving  into  tears  of  tenderness 
for  all  mankind.  The  idea  quite  stunned  her,  as  she  attended 
the  light  foot-steps  down  the  stairs,  that  the  house  door 
might  be  safely  shut. 


348  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

On  opening  it  to  let  Little  Dorrit  out,  she  found  Mr. 
Pancks,  instead  of  having  gone  his  way,  as  in  any  less  won- 
derful place  and  among  less  wonderful  phenomena  he  might 
have  been  reasonably  expected  to  do,  fluttering  up  and 
down  the  court  outside  the  house.  The  moment  he  saw 
Little  Dorrit,  he  passed  her  briskly,  said  with  his  finger  to 
his  nose  (as  Mistress  Affery  distinctly  heard),  ^^  Pancks  the 
gipsy,  fortune-telling,"  and  went  away.  "  Lord  save  us, 
here's  a  gipsy  and  a  fortune-teller  in  it  now  !  "  cried  Mis- 
tress Affery.    /*  What  next  !  " 

She  stood  at  the  open  door,  staggering  herself  with  this 
enigma,  on  a  rainy,  thundery  evening.  The  clouds  were 
flying  fast,  and  the  wind  was  coming  up  in  gusts  banging 
some  neighboring  shutters  that  had  broken  loose,  twirling 
the  rusty  chimney-cowls  and  weather-cocks,  and  rushing 
round  and  round  a  confined  adjacent  church-yard  as  if  it  had 
a  mind  to  blow  the  dead  citizens  out  of  their  graves.  The 
low  thunder,  muttering  in  all  quarters  of  the  sky  at  once, 
seemed  to  threaten  vengeance  for  this  attempted  desecra- 
tion, and  to  mutter,  ^^  Let  them  rest  !     Let  them  rest  !" 

Mistress  Affery,  whose  fear  of  thunder  and  lightning  was 
only  to  be  equaled  by  her  dread  of  the  haunted  house  with 
a  premature  and  preternatural  darkness  in  it,  stood  unde- 
cided whether  to  go  in  or  not,  until  the  question  was  settled 
for  her  by  the  door  blowing  upon  her  in  a  violent  gust  of 
wind  and  shutting  her  out.  ^^  What's  to  be  done  now,  what's 
to  be  done  now  !  "  cried  Mistress  Affery,  wringing  her  hands 
in  this  last  uneasy  dream  of  all  ;  "  when  she's  all  alone  by 
herself  inside,  and  can  no  more  come  down  to  open  it  than 
the  church-yard  dead  themselves  !  " 

In  this  dilemma.  Mistress  Affery,  with  her  apron  as  a  hood 
to  keep  the  rain  off,  ran  crying  up  and  down  the  solitary 
paved  inclosure  several  times.  Why  she  should  then  stoop 
down  and  look  in  at  the  key-hole  of  the  door,  as  if  an  eye 
would  open  it,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  ;  but  it  is  none 
the  less  what  most  people  would  have  done  in  the  same 
situation,  and  it  is  what  she  did. 

From  this  posture  she  started  up  suddenly,  with  a  half 
scream,  feeling  something  on  her  shoulder.  It  was  the 
touch  of  a  hand  ;  of  a  man's  hand. 

The  man  was  dressed  like  a  traveler,  in  a  foraging  cap 
with  fur  about  it,  and  a  heap  of  cloak.  He  looked  like  a 
foreigner.  He  had  a  quantity  of  hair  and  mustache — jet 
black,  except  at  the  shaggy  ends,  where  it  had  a  tinge  of  red 


LITTLE  DORRlT.  349 

— and  a  high  hook  nose.  He  laughed  at  Mistress  Affery's 
start  and  cry  ;  and  as  he  laughed,  his  mustache  went  up 
under  his  nose,  and  his  nose  came   down  over  his  mustache. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked  in  plain  English.  "  What 
are  you  frightened  at  ?  " 

"  At  you,"  panted  Affery. 

*'  Me,  madam  ? " 

"  And  the  dismal  evening,  and — and  every  thing,"  said 
Affery.  "  And  here  !  The  wind  has  been  and  blown  the  door 
to,  and  I  can't  get  in." 

^'  Hah  !  "  said  the  gentleman,  who  took  that  very  coolly. 
*'  Indeed  !  Do  you  know  such  a  name  as  Clennam  about 
here  ? " 

*'  Lord  bless  us,  I  should  think  I  did,  I  should  think  I 
did  !  "  cried  Affery,  exasperated  into  a  new  wringing  of 
hands  by  the  inquiry. 

'*  Where  about  here  ?  " 

"  Where  !  "  cried  Affery,  goaded  into  another  inspection 
of  the  key- hole.  "  Where  but  here  in  this  house  ?  And  she's 
all  alone  in  her  room,  and  lost  the  use  of  her  limbs  and  can't 
stir  to  help  herself  or  me,  and  the  t'other  clever  one's  out, 
and  Lord  forgive  me  !  "  cried  Affery,  driven  into  a  frantic 
dance  by  these  accumulated  considerations,  **  if  I  ain't 
a-going  headlong  out  of  my  mind  !  " 

Taking  a  warmer  view  of  the  matter  now  that  it  concerned 
himself,  the  gentleman  stepped  back  to  glance  at  the  house, 
and  his  eyes  soon  rested  on  the  long  narrow  window  of  the 
little  room  near  the   hall-door. 

**  Where  may  the  lady  be  who  has  lost  the  use  of  her 
limbs,  madam  ? "  he  inquired,  with  that  peculiar  smile 
which  Mistress  Affery  could  not  choose  but  keep  her  eyes 
upon. 

"  Up  there  !  "  said  Affery.     ^*  Them  two  windows." 

"  Hah  !  I  am  of  a  fair  size,  but  could  not  have  the  honor 
of  presenting  myself  in  that  room  without  a  ladder.  Now, 
madam,  frankly — frankness  is  a  part  of  my  character — shall 
I  open  the  door  for  you  ?  " 

*^  Yes,  bless  you,  sir,  for  a  dear  creetur,  and  do  it  at  once," 
cried  Affery,  "  for  she  may  be  a-calling  to  me  at  this  very 
present  minute,  or  may  be  setting  herself  afire  and  burning 
herself  to  death,  or  there's  no  knowing  what  may  be  happen- 
ing to  her,  and  me  a-going  out  of  my  mind  at  thinking 
of  it  !  " 

'^  Stay,  my  good  madam  !  '*     He  restrained  her  impatience 


350  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with  a  smooth  white  hand.  "  Business-hours,  I  apprehend, 
are  over  for  the  day  ?  " 

**  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Affery.     ^'  Long  ago." 

**  Let  me  make,  then,  a  fair  proposal.  Fairness  is  a  part 
of  my  character.  I  am  just  landed  from  the  packet-boat, 
as  you  may  see."  He  showed  her  that  his  cloak  was  very 
wet,  and  that  his  boots  were  saturated  with  water  ;  she  had 
previously  observed  that  he  was  disheveled  and  sallow,  as  if 
from  a  rough  voyage,  and  so  chilled  that  he  could  not  keep 
his  teeth  from  chattering.  ^'  I  am  just  landed  from  the 
packet-boat,  madam,  and  have  been  delayed  by  the  weather; 
the  infernal  weather  !  In  consequence  of  this,  madam,  some 
necessary  business  that  I  should  otherwise  have  transacted 
here  within  the  regular  hours  (necessary  business  because 
money-business),  still  remains  to  be  done.  Now,  if  you  will 
fetch  any  authorized  neighboring  somebody  to  do  it,  in  re- 
turn for  my  opening  the  door,  I'll  open   the  door.     If  this 

arrangement  should  be  objectionable,  I'll "  and  with  the 

same  smile  he  made  a  significant  feint  of  backing  away. 

Mistress  Affery,  heartily  glad  to  effect  the  proposed  com- 
promise, gave  in  her  willing  adhesion  to  it.  The  gentleman 
at  once  requested  her  to  do  him  the  favor  of  holding  his 
cloak,  took  a  short  run  at  the  narrow  window,  made  a  leap 
at  the  sill,  clung  his  way  up  the  bricks,  and  in  a  moment  had 
his  hand  at  the  sash,  raising  it.  His  eyes  looked  so  very  sin- 
ister, as  he  put  his  leg  into  the  room  and  glanced  round  at 
Mistress  Affery,  that  she  thought,  with  a  sudden  coldness,  if 
he  were  to  go  straight  up  stairs  to  murder  the  invalid,  what 
could  she  do  to  prevent  him  ? 

Happily  he  had  no  such  purpose  ;  for  he  re-appeared,  in 
a  moment,  at  the  house  door.  ''  Now,  my  dear  madam,"  he 
said,  as  he  took  back  his  cloak  and  threw  it  on,  "  if  you'll 
have  the  goodness  to what  the  devil's  that  ?  " 

The  strangest  of  sounds.  Evidently  close  at  hand  from 
the  peculiar  shock  it  communicated  to  the  air,  yet  subdued 
as  if  it  were  far  off.  A  tremble,  a  rumble,  and  a  fall  of  some 
light  dry  matter. 

''What  the  devil  is  it?" 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  I've  heard  the  like  of  it 
over  and  over  again,"  said  Affery,  who  had  caught  his  arm. 

He  could  hardly  be  a  very  brave  man,  even  she  thought 
in  her  dreamy  start  and  fright,  for  his  trembling  lips  had 
turned  colorless.  After  listening  a  few  moments,  he  made 
light  of  it. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  ^  351 

*^  Bah  !  Nothing  !  Now,  my  dear  madam,  I  think  you 
spoke  of  some  clever  personage.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
confront  me  with  that  genius  ?  "  He  held  the  door  in  his 
hand,  as  though  he  were  quite  ready  to  shut  her  out  again 
if  she  failed. 

''  Don't  you  say  any  thing  about  the  door  and  me,  then,'* 
whispered  Affery. 

'^  Not  a  word." 

''  And  don't  you  stir  from  here,  or  speak  if  she  calls,  while 
I  run  round  the  corner." 

*^  Madam,  I  am  a  statue." 

Affery  had  so  vivid  a  fear  of  his  going  stealthily  up  stairs 
the  moment  her  back  was  turned,  that  after  hurrying  out  of 
sight,  she  returned  to  the  gate-way  to  peep  at  him.  Seeing 
him  still  on  the  threshold,  more  out  of  the  house  than  in  it, 
as  if  he  had  no  love  for  darkness  and  no  desire  to  probe  its 
mysteries,  she  flew  into  the  next  street,  and  sent  a  message 
into  the  tavern  to  Mr.  Flintwinch,  who  came  out  directly. 
The  two  returning  together — the  lady  in  advance,  and  Mr. 
Flintwinch  coming  up  briskly  behind,  animated  with  the 
hope  of  shaking  her  before  she  could  get  housed — saw  the 
gentleman  standing  in  the  same  place  in  the  dark,  and  heard 
the  strong  voice  of  Mrs.  Clennam  calling  from  her  room, 
"  Who  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  Why  does  no  one  answer  ? 
Who  is  that,  down  there  ? " 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE    WORD    OF    A    GENTLEMAN. 

When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Flintwinch  panted  up  to  the  door  of 
the  old  house  in  the  twilight,  Jeremiah  within  a  second  of 
Affery,  the  stranger  started  back.  "'  Death  of  my  soul  !  "  he 
exclaimed.     '^  Why,  how  did  you  get  here  ? " 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  to  whom  these  words  were  spoken,  repaid 
the  stranger's  wonder  in  full.  He  gazed  at  him  with  blank 
astonishment  ;  he  looked  over  his  own  shoulder,  as  expecting 
to  see  some  one  he  had  not  been  aware  of  standing  behind 
him;  he  gazed  at  the  stranger  again,  speechlessly  at  a  loss  to 
know  what  he  meant;  he  looked  to  his  wife  for  explanation; 
receiving  none,  he  pounced  upon  her,  and  shook  her  with 
such  heartiness  that  he  shook  her  cap  off  her  head,  saying 
between  his  teeth,  with  grim  raillery,  as  he  did  it,  ''  Affery^ 


352  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

my  woman,  you  must  have  a  dose,  my  dear  !  This  is 
some  of  your  tricks  !  You  have  been  dreaming  again,  mis- 
tress. What's  it  about  ?  Who  is  it  ?  What  does  it  mean  ? 
Speak  out  or  be  choked  !  It's  the  only  choice  I'll  give 
you." 

Supposing  Mistress  Affery  to  have  any  power  of  election 
at  the  moment,  her  choice  was  decidedly  to  be  choked;  for 
she  answered  not  a  syllable  to  this  adjuration,  but,  with  her 
bare  head  wagging  violently  backward  and  forward, 
resigned  herself  to  her  punishment.  The  stranger,  however, 
picking  up  her  cap  with  an  air  of  gallantry,  interposed. 

^'  Permit  me,"  said  he,  layin^his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
Jeremiah,  who  stopped,  and  released  his  victim.  "  Thank 
you.  Excuse  me.  Husband  and  wife  I  know,  from  this 
playfulness.  Haha  !  Always  agreeable  to  see  that  relation 
playfully  maintained.  Listen  !  May  I  suggest  that  some- 
body up  stairs,  in  the  dark,  is  becoming  energetically  curi- 
ous to  know  what  is  going  on  here  ? " 

This  reference  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  voice  reminded  Mr. 
Flintwinch  to  step  into  the  hall,  and  call  up  the  staircase. 
^'  It's  all  right,  I  am  here;  Affery  is  coming  with  your  light." 
Then  he  said  to  the  latter  flustered  woman,  who  was  putting 
her  cap  on,  "  Get  out  with  you,  and  get  up  stairs  !  "  and 
then  turned  to  the  stranger,  and  said  to  him,  ^*  Now,  sir, 
what  might  you  please  to  want  ? " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  stranger,  **  I  must  be  so  trouble- 
some as  to  propose  a  candle." 

"True,"  assented  Jeremiah.  ""I  was  going  to  do  'so. 
Please  to  stand  where  you  are,  while  I  get  one." 

The  visitor  was  standing  in  the  doorway,  but  turned  a 
little  into  the  gloom  of  the  house  as  Mr.  Flintwinch  turned, 
and  pursued  him  with  his  eyes  into  the  little  room,  where 
he  groped  about  for  a  phosphorus  box.  When  he  found  it,  it 
was  damp,  or  otherwise  out  of  order;  and  match  after  match 
that  he  struck  into  it  lighted  sufficiently  to  throw  a  dull 
glare  about  his  groping  face,  and  to  sprinkle  his  hands  with 
pale  little  spots  of  fire,  but  not  sufficiently  to  light  the  can- 
dle. The  stranger,  taking  advantage  of  this  fitful  illumination 
of  his  visage,  looked  intently  and  wonderingly  at  him.  Jere- 
miah, when  he  at  last  lighted  the  candle,  knew  he  had  been 
doing  this,  by  seeing  the  last  shade  of  a  lowering  watchful- 
ness clear  away  from  his  face,  as  it  broke  into  the  doubtful 
smile  that  was  a  large  ingredient  in  its  expression. 

**  Be  so  good,"  said  Jeremiah,  closing  the  house  door,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  353 

taking  a  pretty  sharp  survey  of  the  smiling  visitor  in  his 
turn,  *^  as  to  step  into  my  counting-house. — It's  all  right,  I 
tell  you  !  "  petulantly  breaking  off  to  answer  the  voice  up 
stairs,  still  unsatisfied,  though  Affery  was  there,  speaking 
in  persuasive  tones.  **  Don't  I  tell  you  it's  all  right  ?  Pre- 
serve the  woman,  has  she  no  reason  at  all  in  her?" 

"  Timorous,"  remarked  the  stranger. 

"  Timorous  ?  "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  turning  his  head  to 
retort  as  he  went  before  with  the  candle.  '^  More  cour- 
ageous than  ninety  men  in  a  hundred,  sir,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  Though  an  invalid  ?  " 

"  Many  years  an  invalid.  Mrs.  Clennam.  The  only  one 
of  that  name  left  in  the  house  now.     My  partner." 

Saying  something  apologetically  as  he  crossed  the  hall, 
to  the  effect  that  at  that  time  of  night  they  were  not  in 
the  habit  of  receiving  any  one,  and  were  always  shut  up, 
Mr.  Flintwinch  led  the  way  into  his  own  office,  which 
presented  a  sufficiently  business-like  appearance.  Here  he 
put  the  light  on  his  desk,  and  said  to  the  stranger,  with 
the  wryest  twist  upon  him,  "  Your  commands." 

"  My  name  is  Blandois." 

"  Blandois.     I  don't  know  it,"  said  Jeremiah. 

**  I  thought  it  possible,"  resumed  the  other,  "that  you 
might  have  been  advised  from  Paris " 

*'  We  have  had  no  advice  from  Paris  respecting  any  body 
of  the  name  of  Blandois,"  said  Jeremiah. 

"No?'^ 

"No.'; 

Jeremiah  stood  in  his  favorite  attitude.  The  smiling  Mr. 
Blandois,  opening  his  cloak  to  get  his  hand  to  a  breast- 
pocket paused  to  say,  with  a  laugh  in  his  glittering  eyes, 
which  it  occurred  to  Mr.  Flintwinch  were  too  near  together: 

"  You  are  so  like  a  friend  of  mine  !  Not  so  identically 
the  same  as  I  supposed  when  I  really  did  for  the  moment 
take  you  to  be  the  same  in  the  dusk — for  which  I  ought  to 
apologize;  permit  me  to  do  so;  a  readiness  to  confess  my 
errors  is,  I  hope,  a  part  of  the  frankness  of  my  character — 
still,  however,  uncommonly  like." 

'  "  Indeed  ?"  said  Jeremiah,  perversely.  "  But  I  have  not 
received  any  letter  of  advice  from  anywhere,  respecting  any 
body  of  the  name  of  Blandois." 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  J^us^  so,"  said  Jeremiah. 

Mr.  Blandois,  not  at  all  put  out  by  this  omission  on  the 


354  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

part  of  the  correspondents  of  the  house  of  Clennam  and  Co., 
took  his  pocket-book  from  his  breast-pocket,  selected  a  letter 
from  that  receptacle,  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Flintwinch. 
"  No  doubt  you  are  well  acquainted  with  the  writing.  Per- 
haps the  letter  speaks  for  itself,  and  requires  no  advice. 
You  are  a  far  more  competent  judge  of  such  affairs  than  I 
am.  It  is  my  misfortune  to  be,  not  so  much  a  man  of 
business,  as  what  the  world  calls  (arbitrarily)  a  gentle- 
man." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  took  the  letter,  and  read,  under  date  of 
Paris,  "  We  have  to  present  to  you,  on  behalf  of  a  highly 
esteemed  correspondent  of  our  firm,  M.  Blandois,  of  this 
city,"  etc.,  etc.  '*  Such  facilities  as  he  may  require  and  such 
attentions  as  may  lie  in  your  power,"  etc.,  etc.  ^*  Also  have 
to  add  that  if  you  will  honor  M.  Blandois's  drafts  at  sight  to 
the  extent  of,  say  fifty  pounds  sterling  (;^5o),"  etc.,  etc. 

"  Very  good,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch.  '^  Take  a  chair. 
To  the  extent  of  any  thing  that  our  house  can  do — we  are 
in  a  retired,  old-fashioned,  steady  way  of  business,  sir — we 
shall  be  happy  to  render  you  our  best  assistance.  I  observe, 
from  the  date  of  this,  that  we  could  not  yet  be  advised  of  it. 
Probably  you  came  over  with  the  delayed  mail  that  brings 
the  advice." 

*'  That  I  came  over  with  the  delayed  mail,  sir,"  returned 
Mr.  Blandois,  passing  his  white  hand  down  his  high-hooked 
nose,  "  I  know  to  the  cost  of  my  head  and  stomach  :  the 
detestable  and  intolerable  weather  having  racked  them  both. 
You  see  me  in  the  plight  in  which  I  came  out  of  the  packet 
within  this  half-hour.  I  ought  to  have  been  here  hours  ago, 
and  then  I  should  not  have  to  apologize — permit  me  fo 
apologize — for  presenting  myself  so  unseasonably,  and 
frightening — no,  by-the-by,  you  said  not  frightening  ;  per- 
mit me  to  apologize  again — the  esteemed  lady,  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam, in  her  invalid  chamber  above  stairs." 

Swagger,  and  an  air  of  authorized  condescension,  do  so 
much,  that  Mr.  Flintwinch  had  already  begun  to  think  this  a 
highly  gentlemanly  personage.  Not  the  less  unyielding 
with  him  on  that  account,  he  scraped  his  chin  and  said,  what 
could  he  have  the  honor  of  doing  for  Mr.  Blandois  to-night, 
out  of  business  hours  ? 

"  Faith  I  "  returned  that  gentleman,  shrugging  his  cloaked 
shoulders,  *'  I  must  change,  and  eat  and  drink,  and  be 
lodged  somewhere.  Have  the  kindness  to  advise  me,  a  total 
stranger,  where,  and  money  is  a  matter  of  perfect  indiffer- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  355 

ence,  until  to-morrow.  The  nearer  the  place,  the  better. 
Next  door,  if  that's  all.'' 

Mr.  Flintwinch  was  slowly  beginning,  "  For  a  gentleman 
of  your  habits,  there  is  not  in  this  immediate  neighborhood 
any  hotel — "  when  Mr.  Blandois  took  him  up. 

**  So  much  for  my  habits!  my  dear  sir,"  snapping  his 
fingers.  *'  A  citizen  of  the  world  has  no  habits.  That  I 
am,  in  my  poor  way,  a  gentleman,  by  heaven  !  I  will  not 
deny,  but  I  have  no  unaccommodating  prejudiced  habits. 
A  clean  room,  a  hot  dish  for  dinner,  and  a  bottle  of  not 
absolutely  poisonous  wine,  are  all  I  want  to-night.  But  I 
want  that  much,  without  the  trouble  of  going  one  unneces- 
sary inch  to  get  it." 

"  There  is,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  with  more  than  his 
usual  deliberation,  as  he  met,  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Blandois's 
shining  eyes,  which  were  restless  ;  '^  there  is  a  coffee-house 
and  tavern  close  here,  which,  so  far,  I  can  recommend  ;  but 
there's  no  style  about  it." 

"  I  dispense  with  style  !  "  said  Mr.  Blandois,  waving  his 
hand.  *'  Do  me  the  honor  to  show  me  the  house,  and  intro- 
duce me  there  (if  I  am  not  too  troublesome),  and  I  shall  be 
infinitely  obliged." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  upon  this,  looked  up  his  hat,  and  lighted 
Mr.  Blandois  across  the  hall  again.  As  he  put  the  candle 
on  a  bracket  where  the  dark  old  paneling  almost  served  as 
an  extinguisher  for  it,  he  bethought  himself  of  going  up  to 
tell  the  invalid  that  he  would  not  be  absent  five  minutes. 

"Oblige  me,"  said  the  visitor,  on  his  saying  so,  ^'  by  pre- 
senting my  card  of  visit.  Do  me  the  favor  to  add,  that  I 
shall  be  happy  to'  wait  on  Mrs.  Clennam,  to  offer  my  per- 
sonal compliments,  and  to  apologize  for  having  occasioned 
any  agitation  in  this  tranquil  corner,  if  it  should  suit  her 
convenience  to  endure  the  presence  of  a  stranger  for  a  few 
minutes,  after  he  shall  have  changed  his  wet  clothes  and 
fortified  himself  with  something  to  eat  and  drink." 

Jeremiah  made  all  dispatch,  and  said,  on  his  return, 
'^  She'll  be  glad  to  see  you,  sir  ;  but,  being  conscious  that  her 
sick  room  has  no  attractions,  wishes  me  to  say  that  she  won't 
hold  you  to  you^  offer,  in  case  you  should  think  better  of  it.'" 

"To  think  better  of  it,"  returned  the  gallant  Blandois,, 
"would  be  to  slight  a  lady;  to  slight  a  lady  would  be  to  be 
deficient  in  chivalry  toward  the  sex,  and  chivalry  toward  the 
sex  is  a  part  of  my  character  !  "  Thus  expressing  himself, 
he  threw  the  draggled  skirt  of  his  cloak  over  his  shoulder^ 


356  LITTLE  DORRIT, 

and  accompanied  Mr.  Flintwinch  to  the  tavern;  taking  up 
on  the  road  a  porter,  who  was  waiting  with  his  portmanteau 
on  the  outer  side  of  the  gate-way. 

The  house  was  kept  in  a  homely  manner,  and  the  conde- 
scension of  Mr.  Blandois  was  infinite.  It  seemed  to  fill  to 
inconvenience  the  little  bar  in  which  the  widow  landlady  and 
her  two  daughters  received  him;  it  was  much  too  big  for  the 
narrow  wainscoted  room  with  a  bagatelle-board  in  it,  that  was 
first  proposed  for  his  reception;  it  perfectly  swamped  the 
little  private  holiday  sitting-room  of  the  family,  which  was 
finally  given  up  to  him.  Here,  in  dry  clothes  and  scented 
linen,  with  sleeked  hair,  a  great  ring  on  each  forefinger,  and 
a  massive  show  of  watch-chain,  Mr.  Blandois  waiting  for  his 
dinner,  lolling  on  a  window-seat  with  his  knees  drawn  up, 
looked  (for  all  the  difference  in  the  setting  of  the  jewel)  fear- 
fully and  wonderfully  like  a  certain  Monsieur  Rigaud  who 
had  once  so  waited  for  his  breakfast,  lying  on  the  stone  ledge 
of  the  iron  grating  of  a  cell  in  a  villainous  dungeon  o^ 
Marseilles. 

His  greed  at  dinner,  too,  was  closely  in  keeping  with  the 
greed  of  Monsieur  Rigaud  at  breakfast.  His  avaricious 
manner  of  collecting  all  the  eatables  about  him,  and  devour- 
ing some  with  his  eyes,  while  devouring  others  with  his  jaws, 
was  the  same  manner.  His  utter  disregard  of  other  people, 
as  shown  in  his  way  of  tossing  the  little  womanly  toys  of 
furniture  about,  flinging  favorite  cushions  under  his  boots 
for  a  softer  rest,  and  crushing  delicate  coverings  with  his  big 
body  and  his  great  black  head,  had  the  same  brute  selfish- 
ness at  the*bottom  of  it.  The  softly  moving  hands  that  were 
so  busy  among  the  dishes  had  the  old  wicked  facility  of  the 
hands  that  had  clung  to  the  bars.  And  when  he  could  eat 
no  more,  and  sat  sucking  his  delicate  fingers  one  by  one  and 
wiping  them  on  a  cloth,  there  wanted  nothing  but  the  sub- 
stitution of  vine-leaves  to  finish  the  picture. 

On  this  man,  with  his  mustache  going  up  and  his  nose 
coming  down  in  that  most  evil  of  smiles,  and  with  his  surface 
eyes  looking  as  if  they  belonged  to  his  dyed  hair,  and  had 
had  their  natural  power  of  reflecting  light  stopped  by  some 
similar  process,  nature,  always  true,  and  rfever  working  in 
vain,  had  set  the  mark,  beware  !  It  was  not  her  fault,  if  the 
warning  were  fruitless.  She  is  never  to  blame  in  any  such 
instance. 

Mr.  Blandois,  having  finished  his  repast  and  cleaned  his 
fingers,  took  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  and,  lying  on  the  win- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  -57 

dow  seat,  again,  smoked  it  out  at  his  leisure,  occasionally 
apostrophizing  the  smoke  as  it  parted  from  his  thin  lips  in 
a  thin  stream. 

^*  Blandois,  you  shall  turn  the  table  on  society,  my  little 
child.  Haha  !  Holy  blue,  you  have  begun  well,  Blandois  ! 
At  a  pinch,  an  excellent  master  in  English  or  French  ;  a  man 
for  the  bosom  of  families  !  You  have  a  quick  perception,  you 
have  humor,  you  have  ease,  you  have  insinuating  manners, 
you  have  a  good  appearance;  in  effect,  you  are  a  gentleman  ! 
A  gentleman  you  shall  live,  my  small  boy,  and  a  gentleman 
you  shall  die.  You  shall  win,  however  the  game  goes.  They 
shall  all  confess  your  merit,  Blandois.  You  shall  subdue 
the  society  which  has  grievously  wronged  you,  to  your  own 
high  spirit.  Death  of  my  soul  !  You  are  high-spirited  by 
right  and  by  nature,  my  Blandois  !  " 

To  such  soothing  murmurs  did  this  gentleman  smoke  out 
his  cigar  and  drink  out  his  bottle  of  wine.  Both  being  fin- 
ished, he  shook  himself  into  a  sitting  attitude ;  and  with  the 
concluding  serious  apostrophe,  "  Hold  then  !  Blandois,  you 
ingenious  one,  have  all  your  wits  about  you  ! "  arose  and 
went  back  to  the  house  of  Clennam  and  Co. 

He  was  received  at  the  door  by  Mistress  Affery,  who  under 
instruction  from  her  lord,  had  lighted  up  two  candles  in  the 
hall  and  a  third  on  the  staircase,  and  who  had  conducted  him 
to  Mr.  Clennam's  room.  Tea  was  prepared  there,  and  such 
little  company  arrangements  had  been  made  as  usually  at- 
tended the  reception  of  expected  visitors.  They  were  slight 
on  the  greatest  occasion,  never  extending  beyond  the  pro- 
duction of  the  China  tea-service,  and  the  covering  of  the  bed 
with  a  sober  and  sad  drapery.  For  the  rest,  there  was  the 
bier-like  sofa  with  the  block  upon  it,  and  the  figure  in  the 
widow's  dress,  as  if  attired  for  execution  ;  the  fire  topped 
by  the  mound  of  damp  ashes  ;  the  grate  with  its  second  lit- 
tle mound  of  ashes  ;  the  kettle  and  the  smell  of  black  dye  ; 
all  as  they  had  been  for  fifteen  years. 

Mr.  Flintwinch  presented  the  gentleman  commended  to 
the  consideration  of  Clennam  and  Co.  Mrs.  Clennam,  who 
had  the  letter  lying  before  her,  bent  her  head  and  requested 
him  to  sit.  They  looked  very  closely  at  one  another.  That 
was  but  natural  curiosity. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  thinking  of  a  disabled  woman  like 
me.  Few  who  come  here  on  business  have  any  remembrance 
to  bestow  on  one  so  removed  from  observation.  It  would  be 
idle  to  expect  that  they  should  have.     Out  of  sight  out  of 


358  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

mind.  When  I  am  grateful  for  the  exception  I  don't  complain 
of  the  rule." 

Mr.  Blandois,  in  his  most  gentlemanly  manner,  was  afraid 
he  had  disturbed  her  by  unhappily  presenting  himself  at  such 
an  unconscionable  time.     For  which  he  had  already  offered 

his  best  apologies  to  Mr. ,  he  begged  pardon — but  by 

name  had  not  the  distinguished  honor 

"  Mr.  Flintwinch  has  been  connected  with  the  house  many 
years." 

Mr.  Blandois  was  Mr.  Flintwinch's  most  obedient  humble 
servant.  He  entreated  Mr.  Flintwinch  to  receive  the  assur- 
ance of  his  profoundest  consideration. 

"  My  husband  being  dead/'  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  "  and  my 
son  preferring  another  pursuit,  our  old  house  has  no  other 
representative  in  these  days  than  Mr.  Flintwinch." 

^'  What  do  you  call  yourself  ? "  was  the  surly  demand  of 
that  gentleman.     *'  You  have  the  head  of  two  men." 

"  My  sex  disqualifies  me,"  she  proceeded,  with  merely  a 
slight  turn  of  her  eyes  in  Jeremiah's  direction,  from  taking  a 
responsible  part  in  the  business,  even  if  I  had  the  ability  ;  and 
therefore,  Mr.  Flintwinch  combines  my  interest  with  his  own, 
and  conducts  it.  It  is  not  what  it  used  to  be  ;  but  some  of 
our  old  friends  (principally  the  writers  of  this  letter)  have  the 
kindness  not  to  forget  us,  and  we  retain  the  power  of  doing 
what  they  intrust  to  us  as  efficiently  as  we  ever  did.  This, 
however,  is  not  interesting  to  you.  You  are  English,  sir  ?" 

"  Faith,  madame,  no  ;  I  am  neither  born  nor  bred  in  Eng- 
land. In  effect,  I  am  of  no  country,"  said  Mr.  Blandois, 
stretching  out  his  leg  and  smiting  it  :  "I  descend  from  half- 
a-dozen  countries." 

"  You  have  been  much  about  the  world  ?  " 

"  It  is  true.  By  heaven,  madame,  I  have  been  here  and 
there  and  everywhere  !  " 

"  You  have  no  ties,  probably.     Are  not  married." 

*^  Madame,"  said  Mr.  Blandois,  with  an  ugly  fall  of  his  eye- 
brows, **  I  adore  your  sex,  but  I  am  not  married—  never  was." 

Mistress  Affery,  who  stood  at  the  table  near  him,  pouring 
out  the  tea,  happened,  in  her  dreamy  state,  to  look  at  him  as 
he  said  these  words,  and  to  fancy  that  she  caught  an  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes  which  attracted  her  own  eyes  so  that  she  could 
not  get  them  away.  The  effect  of  this  fancy  was  to  keep  her 
staring  at  him  with  the  tea-pot  in  her  hand,  not  only  to  her 
own  great  uneasiness,  but  manifestly  to  his,  too  ;  and,  through 
them  both,  to  Mrs.  Clennam's  and  Mr,  Flintwinch's.     Thus 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  359 

a  few  ghostly  moments  supervened,  when  they  were  all  con- 
fusedly staring  without  knowing  why. 

"  Affery,"  her  mistress  was  the  first  to  say,  "  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know,"  said  Mistress  Affery  with  disengaged 
left  hand  extended  toward  the  visitor.  "  It  ain't  me.  It's 
him  !  " 

"  What  does  this  good  woman  mean  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Blandois, 
turning  white,  hot,  and  slowly  rising  with  a  look  of  such 
deadly  wrath  that  it  contrasted  surprisingly  with  the  slight 
force  of  his  words.  *'How  is  it  possible  to  understand  this 
good  creature  ? " 

''  It's  7iot  possible,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  screwing  himself 
rapidly  in  that  direction.  ^*  She  don't  know  what  she  means. 
She's  an  idiot,  a  wanderer  in  her  mind.  She  shall  have  a  dose, 
she  shall  have  such  a  dose  !  Get  along  with  you,  my  woman," 
he  added  in  her  ear,  "get  along  with  you,  while  you  know 
you're  Affery,  and  before  you're  shaken  to  yeast." 

Mistress  Affery,  sensible  of  the  danger  in  which  her  iden- 
tity stood,  relinquished  the  tea-pot  as  her  husband  seized  it, 
put  her  apron  over  her  head,  and,  in  a  twinkling,  vanished. 
The  visitor  gradually  broke  into  a  smile,  and  sat  down  again. 

"  You'll  excuse  her,  Mr.  Blandois,"  said  Jeremiah,  pouring 
out  the  tea  himself  ;  "  she's  failing  and  breaking  up  ;  that's 
what  she's  about.     Do  you  take  sugar,  sir  ?" 

"  Thank  you  ;  no  tea  for  me. — Pardon  my  observing  it, 
but  that's  a  very  remarkable  watch  !  " 

The  tea-table  was  drawn  up  near  the  sofa,  with  a  small 
interval  between  it  and  Mrs.  Clennam's  own  particular  table. 
Mr.  Blandois,  in  his  gallantry,  had  risen  to  hand  that  lady  her 
tea  (her  dish  of  toast  was  already  there),  and  it  was  in  plac- 
ing the  •  cup  conveniently  within  her  reach  that  the  watch, 
lying  before  her,  as  it  always  did,  attracted  his  attention. 
Mrs.  Clennam  looked  suddenly  up  at  him. 

"  May  I  be  permitted  ?  Thank  you.  A  fine  old-fashioned 
watch,"  he  said,  taking  it  in  his  hand.  "  Heavy  for  use,  but 
massive  and  genuine.  I  have  a  partiality  for  every  thing 
genuine.  Such  as  I  am,  I  am  genuine  myself.  Hah  !  A 
gentleman's  watch  with  two  cases  in  the  old  fashion.  May 
I  remove  it  from  the  outer  case  ?  Thank  you.  Ay  ?  An 
old  silk  watch-lining,  worked  with  beads  !  I  have  often 
seen  these  among  old  Dutch  people  and  Belgians.  Quaint 
things  !  " 

''  They  are  old-fashioned  too,"  said  Mrs.  Clennaiii, 


36o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Very.     But  this  is  not  as  old  as  the  watch,  I  think  ?  *' 

"  I  think  not." 

**  Extraordinary  how  they  used  to  complicate  these 
ciphers  !  "  remarked  Mr.  Blandois,  glancing  up  with  his  own 
smile  again.  "  Now,  is  this  D.  N.  F.  ?  It  might  be  almost 
any  thing." 

''  Those  are  the  letters." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  who  had  been  observantly  pausing  all  this 
time  with  a  cup  of  tea  in  his  hand,  and  his  mouth  open  ready 
to  swallow  the  contents,  began  to  do  so  :  always  entirely  fill- 
ing his  mouth  before  he  emptied  it  at  a  gulp  ;  and  always 
deliberating  again  before  he  refilled  it. 

**  D.  N.  F.  was  some  tender  lovely  fascinating  fair-creat* 
ure,  I  make  no  doubt,"  observed  Mr.  Blandois,  as  he 
snapped  on  the  case  again.  "  I  adore  her  memory  on  the 
assumption.  Unfortunately  for  my  peace  of  mind,  I  adore 
but  too  readily.  It  may  be  a  vice,  it  may  be  a  virtue,  but 
adoration  of  female  beauty  and  merit  constitutes  three  parts 
of  my  character,  madam." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  had  by  this  time  poured  himself  out 
another  cup  of  tea,  which  he  was  swallowing  in  gulps  as 
before,  with  his  eyes  directed  to  the  invalid. 

'^  You  may  be  heart-free  here,  sir,"  she  returned  to  Mr. 
Blandois.  "  Those  letters  are  not  intended,  I  believe,  for 
the  initials  of  any  name." 

"  Of  a  motto,  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Blandois,  casually. 

"  Of  a  sentence.  They  have  always  stood,  I  believe,  for 
Do  Not  Forget  !  " 

**  And  naturally,"  said  Mr.  Blandois,  replacing  the  watch, 
and  stepping  backward  to  his  former  chair,  "  you  do  not  for- 
get." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  finishing  his  tea,  not  only  took  a  longer 
gulp  than  he  had  taken  yet,  but  made  his  succeeding  pause 
under  new  circumstances  :  that  is  to  say,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  cup  held  still  at  his  lips,  while  his  eyes 
were  still  directed  at  the  invalid.  She  had  that  force  of 
face,  and  that  concentrated  air  of  collecting  her  firmness  or 
obstinacy,  which  represented  in  her  case  what  would  have 
been  gesture  and  action  in  another,  as  she  replied  with  her 
deliberate  strength  of  speech: 

"  No,  sir,  I  do  not  forget.  To  lead  a  life  as  monotonous 
as  mine  has  been  during  many  years,  is  not  the  way  to  for- 
get. To  lead  a  life  of  self-correction  is  not  the  way  to  for- 
get.    To  be  sensible  of  having  (as  we  all  have,  every  one  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  361 

us,  all  the  children  of  Adam  !)  offenses  to  expiate  and 
peace  to  make,  does  not  justify  the  desire  to  forget.  There- 
fore I  have  long  dismissed  it,  and  I  neither  forget  nor  wish 
to  forget." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  who  had  latterly  been  shaking  the  sedi- 
ment at  the  bottom  of  his  tea-cup,  round  and  round,  here 
gulped  it  down,  and  putting  the  cup  in  the  tea-tray,  as  done 
with,  turned  his  eyes  upon  Mr.  Blandois,  as  if  to  ask  him 
what  he  thought  of  that  ? 

"All  expressed,  madame,"  said  Mr.  Blandois,  with  his 
smoothest  bow  and  his  white  hand  on  his  breast,  "  by  the 
word  ^  naturally,'  which  I  am  proud  to  have  had  sufficient 
apprehension  and  appreciation  (but  without  appreciation  I 
could  not  be  Blandois)  to  employ." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  she  returned,  "If  I  doubt  the  likeli- 
hood of  a  gentleman  of  pleasure,  and  change,  and  politeness, 
accustomed  to  court  and  to  be  courted "  * 

"  Oh  madame  !     By  heaven  I  " 

" — If  I  doubt  the  likelihood  of  such  a  character  quite 
comprehending  what  belongs  to  mine  in  my  circumstances. 
Not  to  obtrude  doctrine  upon  you,"  she  looked  at  the  rigid 
pile  of  hard  pale  books  before  her,  "  (for  you  go  your  own 
way,  and  the  consequences  are  on  your  own  head),  I  will 
say  this  much  :  that  I  shape  my  course  by  pilots,  strictly  by 
proved  and  tried  pilots,  under  whom  I  can  not  be  ship- 
wrecked— can  not  be — and  that  if  I  were  unmindful  of  the 
admonition  conveyed  in  those  three  letters,  I  should  not  be 
half  as  chastened  as  I  am." 

It  was  curious  how  she  seized  the  occasion  to  argue  with 
some  invisible  opponent.  Perhaps  with  her  own  better 
sense,   always  turning  upon  herself  and  her  own  deception. 

"  If  I  forgot  my  ignorances  in  my  life  of  health  and  free- 
dom, I  might  complain  of  the  life  to  which  I  am  now  con- 
demned. I  never  do  ;  I  never  have  done.  If  I  forgot  that 
this  scene,  the  earth,  is  expressly  meant  to  be  a  scene  of 
gloom,  and  hardship,  and  dark  trial,  for  the  creatures  who  are 
made  out  of  its  dust,  I  might  have  some  tenderness  for  its 
vanities.  But  I  have  no  such  tenderness. '  If  I  did  not  know 
that  we  are,  every  one,  the  subject  (most  justly  the  subject) 
of  a  wrath  that  must  be  satisfied,  and  against  which  mere 
actions  are  nothing,  I  might  repine  at  the  difference  between 
me,  imprisoned  here,. and  the  people  who  pass  that  gate-way 
yonder.  /  But  I  take  it  as  a  grace  and  favor  to  be  elected  to 
make  the  satisfaction   I  am  making   here,  to  know  what  I 


362        ^  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

know  for  certain  here,  and  to  work  out  what  I  have  worked 
out  here.  My  affliction  might  otherwise  have  had  no  mean- 
ing to  me.  Hence  I  would  forget,  and  I  do  forget  nothing. 
Hence  I  am  contented,  and  say  it  is  better  with  me  than  with 
millions." 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  she  put  her  hand  upon  the 
watch,  and  restored  it  to  the  precise  spot  on  her  little  table 
which  it  always  occupied.  With  her  touch  lingering  upon  it, 
she  sat  for  some  moments  afterward,  looking  at  it  steadily 
and  half-defiantly. 

Mr.  Blandois,  during  this  exposition,  had  been  strictly 
attentive,  keeping  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  lady,  and 
thoughtfully  stroking  his  mustache  with  his  two  hands. 
Mr.  Flintwinch  had  been  a  little  fidgety,  and  now 
struck  in. 

**  There,  there,  there  !  "  said  he.  **  That  is  quite  under- 
stood, M/s.  Clennam,  and  you  have  spoken  piously  and  well. 
Mr.  Blandois,  I  suspect,  is  not  of  a  pious  cast." 

**  On  the  contrary,  sir  !  "  that  gentleman  protested,  snap- 
ping his  fingers.  "  Your  pardon  !  It's  a  part  of  my  charac- 
ter. I  am  sensitive,  ardent,  conscientious,  and  imaginative. 
A  sensitive,  ardent,  conscientious,  and  imaginative  man,  Mr. 
Flintwinch,  must  be  that,  or  nothing  ! " 

There  was  an  inkling  of  suspicion  in  Mr.  Flintwinch's 
face  that  he  might  be  nothing,  as  he  swaggered  out  of  his 
chair  (it  was  characteristic  of  this  man,  as  it  is  of  all  men 
similarly  marked,  that  whatever  he  did,  he  overdid,  though  it 
were  sometimes  by  only  a  hair-breadth),  and  approached  to 
take  his  leave  of  Mrs.  Clennam. 

*^  With  what  will  appear  to  you  the  egotism  of  a  sick  old 
woman,  sir,"  she  then  said,  *'  though  really  through  your 
accidental  allusion,  I  have  been  led  away  into  the  subject  of 
myself  and  my  infirmities.  Being  so  considerate  as  to  visit 
me,  I  hope  you  will  be  likewise  so  considerate  as  to  overlook 
that.  Don't  compliment  me,  if  you  please."  For  he  was  evi- 
dently going  to  do  it.  ^*  Mr.  Flintwinch  will  be  happy  to 
render  you  any  service,  and  I  hope  your  stay  in  this  city  may 
prove  agreeable." 

Mr.  Blandois  thanked  her,  and  kissed  his  hand  several 
times.  *'  This  is  an  old  room,"  he  remarked,  with  a  sudden 
sprightliness  of  manner,  looking  round  when  he  got  near  the 
door.  *^  I  have  been  so  interested  that  I  have  not  observed 
it.     But  it's  a  genuine  old  room." 

"It  is  a  genuine  old  house,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  with  her 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  363 

frozen  smile.  "A  place  of  no  pretensions,  but  a  piece  of 
antiquity." 

^'  Faith  ! "  cried  the  visitor.  "  If  Mr.  Flintwinch  would 
do  me  the  favor  to  take  me  through  the  rooms  on  my  way 
out,  he  could  hardly  oblige  me  more.  An  old  house  is  a 
weakness  with  me.  I  have  many  weaknesses,  but  none 
greater.  I  love  and  study  the  picturesque  in  all  its  varieties. 
I  have  been  called  picturesque  myself.  It  is  no  merit  to  be 
picturesque — I  have  greater  merits,  perhaps — but  I  may  be, 
by  an  accident.     Sympathy,  sympathy  !  " 

"  I  tell  you  beforehand,  Mr.  Blandois,  that  you'll  find  it 
very  dingy  and  very  bare,"  said  Jeremiah,  taking  up  the 
candle.  "  It's  not  worth  your  looking  at."  But  Mr.  Blandois, 
smiting  him  in  a  friendly  manner  on  the  back,  only  laughed; 
so  the  said  Blandois  kissed  his  hand  again  to  Mrs.  Clennam, 
and  they  went  out  of  the  room  together. 

^*  You  don't  care  to  go  up-stairs  !  "  said  Jeremiah,  on  the 
landing. 

"  On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Flintwinch;  if  not  tiresome  to  you, 
I  shall  be  ravished  !  " 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  therefore,  wormed  himself  up  the  stair- 
case, and  Mr.  Blandois  followed  close.  They  ascended  to 
the  great  garret  bed-room,  which  Arthur  had  occupied  on 
the  night  of  his  return.  "  There,  Mr.  Blandois  !  "  said  Jere- 
miah, showing  it,  ''  I  hope  you  may  think  that  worth  coming 
so  high,  to  see.     I  confess  I  don't." 

Mr.  Blandois  being  enraptured,  they  walked  through  other 
garrets  and  passages,  and  came  down  the  staircase  again. 
By  this  time,  Mr.  Flintwinch  had  remarked  that  he  never 
found  the  visitor  looking  at  any  room,  after  throwing  one 
quick  glance  around,  but  always  found  the  visitor  looking  at 
him,  Mr.  Flintwinch.  With  this  discovery  in  his  thoughts, 
he  turned  about  on  the  staircase  for  another  experiment.  He 
met  his  eyes  directly;  and  on  the  instant  of  their  fixing  one 
another,  the  visitor,  with  that  ugly  play  of  nose  and  mus- 
tache, laughed  (as  he  had  done  at  every  similar  moment 
since  they  left  Mrs.  Clennam's  chamber)  a  diabolically  silent 
laugh. 

As  a  much  shorter  man  than  the  visitor,  Mr.  Flintwinch 
was  at  the  physical  disadvantage  of  being  thus  disagreeably 
leered  at  from  a  height  ;  and  as  he  went  first  down  the  stair- 
case, and  was  usually  a  step  or  two  lower  than  the  other,  this 
disadvantage  was  at  the  time  increased.  He  postponed  look- 
ing at  Mr.  Blandois  again  until   this   accidental  inequality 


364  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

was  removed  by  their  having  entered  the  late  Mr.  Clennam*s 
room.  But,  then,  twisting  himself  suddenly  round  upon 
him,  he  found  his  look  unchanged. 

"  A  most  admirable  old  homse,"  smiled  Mr.  Blandois. 
"  So  mysterious.  Do  you  never  hear  any  haunted  noises 
here  ?" 

*'  Noises,"  returned  Mr.  Flintwinch.     "  No." 

"  Nor  see  any  devils  ?" 

*^  Not,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  grimly  screwing  himself  at 
his  questioner,  "  not  any  that  introduce  themselves  under  that 
name  and  in  that  capacity." 

"  Haha  !     A  portrait  here  I  see." 

(Still  looking  at  Mr.  Flintwinch,  as  if  he  were  the  portrait.) 

"  It's  a  portrait,  sir,  as  you  observe." 

**  May  I  ask  the  subject,  Mr.  Flintwinch  ?" 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  deceased.     Her  husband." 

"  Former  owner  of  the  remarkable  watch,  perhaps  ?"  said 
the  visitor. 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  who  had  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  portrait 
twisted  himself  about  again,  and  again  found  himself  the 
subject  of  the  same  look  and  smile.  "Yes,  Mr.  Blandois," 
he  replied  tartly.  '^  It  was  his,  and  his  uncle's  before  him, 
and  Lord  knows  who  before  him  ;  and  that's  all  I  can  tell 
you  of  its  pedigree." 

"  That's  a  strongly  marked  character,  Mr.  Flintwinch,  our 
friend  up  stairs." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Jeremiah,  twisting  himself  at  the  visitor 
again,  as  he  did  during  the  whole  of  this  dialogue,  like  some 
screw  machine  that  fell  short  of  its  grip  ;  for  the  other  never 
changed,  and  he  always  felt  obliged  to  retreat  a  little.  '^  She 
is  a  remarkable  woman.  Great  fortitude — great  strength  of 
mind." 

"  They  must  have  been  very  happy,"  said  Blandois. 

"  Who  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Flintwinch,  with  another  screw 
at  him. 

Mr.  Blandois  shook  his  right  forefinger  toward  the  sick 
room,  and  his  left  forefinger  toward  the  portrait,  and  then 
putting  his  arms  akimbo,  and  striding  his  legs  wide  apart, 
stood  smiling  down  at  Mr.  Flintwinch  with  the  advancing 
nose  and  the  retreating  mustache. 

"  As  happy  as  most  other  married  people,  I  suppose,"  re- 
turn€d  Mr.  Flintwinch.  "  I  can't  say.  I  don't  know.  There 
are  secrets  in  all  families." 

"Secrets  !"  cried  Mr.  Blandois,  quickly.  ."Say  it  again, 
my  son." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  365 

'*  I  say,"  replied  Mr.  Flintwinch,  upon  whom  he  had  swelled 
himself  so  suddenly  that  Mr.  Flintwinch  found  his  face  al- 
most brushed  by  the  dilated  chest.  "  I  say  there  are  secrets 
in  all  families." 

"  So  there  are,"  cried  the  other,  clapping  him  on  both 
shoulders,  and  rolling  him  backward  and  forward.  ^'  Haha  ! 
you  are  right.  So  there  are  !  Secrets  !  Holy  blue  !  There 
are  the  devil's  own  secrets  in  some  families,  Mr.  Flintwinch  !" 
VVith  that,  after  clapping  Mr.  Flintwinch  on  both  shoulders 
several  times,  as  if  in  a  friendly  and  humorous  way,  he  were 
rallying  him  on  a  joke  he  had  made,  he  threw  up  his  arms, 
threw  back  his  head,  hooked  his  hands  together  behind  it, 
and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  It  was  in  vain  for  Mr. 
Flintwinch  to  try  another  screw  at  him.  He  had  his  laugh 
out. 

"  But,  favor  me  with  the  candle  a  moment,"  he  said,  when 
he  had  done.  "  Let  us  have  a  look  at  the  husband  of  the 
remarkable  lady.  Hah  !"  holding  up  the  light  at  arms-length. 
"  A  decided  expression  of  face  here  too,  though  not  of  the 
same  character.  Looks  as  if  he  were  saying — what  is  it — Do 
Not  Forget — does  he  not,  Mr.  Flintwinch  ?  By  heaven,  sir, 
he  does  !" 

As  he  returned  him  the  candle,  he  looked  at  him  once 
more  ;  and  then,  leisurely  strolling  out  with  him  into  the 
hall,  declared  it  to  be  a  charming  old  house  indeed,  and  one 
which  had  so  greatly  pleased  him,  that  he  would  not  have 
missed  inspecting  it  for  a  hundred  pounds. 

Throughout  these  singular  freedoms  on  the  part  of  Mr. 
Blandois,  which  involved  a  general  alteration  in  his  demeanor, 
making  it  much  coarser  and  rougher,  much  more  violent  and 
audacious  than  before,  Mr.  Flintwinch,  whose  leathern  face 
was  not  liable  to  many  changes,  preserved  its  immobility 
intact.  Beyond  now  appearing,  perhaps,  to  have  been  left 
hanging  a  trifle  too  long  before  that  friendly  operation  of  cut- 
ting down,  he  outwardly  maintained  an  equable  composure. 
They  had  brought  theri  survey  to  a  close  in  the  little  room 
at  the  side  of  the  hall,  and  he  stood  there,  eying  Mr. 
Blandois. 

^' I  am  glad  you  are  so  well  satisfied,  sir,"  was  his  calm 
remark.  "  I  didn't  expect  it.  You  seem  to  be  quite  in 
good  spirits."  ' 

^'  In  admirable  spirits,"  returned  Blandois.  "  Word  of 
honor  !  never  more  refreshed  in  spirits.  Do  you  ever  have 
presentiments,  Mr.  Flintwinch  ?" 


]66  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  what  you  mean  by  the  term, 
sir,"  replied  that  gentleman. 

"  Say,  in  this  case,  Mr.  Flintwinch,  undefined  anticipations 
of  pleasure  to  come." 

^*  I  can't  say  I'm  sensible  of  such  a  sensation  at  present," 
returned  Mr.  Flintwinch,  with  the  utmost  gravity.  "  If  I 
should  find  it  coming  on,  I'll  mention  it." 

"  Now  I,"  said  Blandois,  ^^  I,  my  son,  have  a  presenti- 
ment to-night  that  we  shall  be  well  acquainted.  Do  you  find 
it  coming  on  ?" 

^*  N — no,"  returned  Mr.  Flintwinch,  deliberately  inquir- 
ing of  himself.     ^*  I  can't  say  I  do." 

^^  I  have  a  strong  presentiment  that  we  shall  become  inti- 
mately acquainted. — You  have  no  feeling  of  that  sort  yet  ?" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch. 

Mr.  Blandois,  taking  him  by  both  shoulders  again,  rolled 
him  about  a  little  in  his  former  merry  way,  then  drew  his 
arm  through  his  own,  and  invited  him  to  come  off  an^J 
drink  a  bottle  of  wine  like  a  dear  deep  old  dog  as  he  was. 

Without  a  moment's  indecision,  Mr.  Flintwinch  acceptenl 
the  invitation,  and  they  went  out  to  the  quarters  where  the 
traveler  was  lodged,  through  a  heavy  rain  which  had  rattleii 
on  the  windows,  roofs,  and  pavements,  ever  since  nightfall. 
The  thunder  and  lightning  had  long  ago  passed  over,  but 
the  rain  was  furious.  On  their  arrival  in  Mr.  Blandois's 
room,  a  bottle  of  port  wine  was  ordered  by  that  gallant  gen- 
tleman ;  who  (crushing  every  pretty  thing  he  could  collect, 
in  the  soft  disposition  of  his  dainty  figure)  coiled  himself 
upon  the  window-seat,  while  Mr.  Flintwinch  took  a  chair 
opposite  to  him,  with  the  table  between  them.  Mr.  Blandois 
proposed  having  the  largest  glasses  in  the  house,  to  which 
Mr.  Flintwinch  assented.  The  bumpers  filled,  Mr.  Blandois, 
with  a  roistering  gayety,  clinked  the  top  of  his  glass  against 
the  bottom  of  Mr.  Flintwinch's,  and  the  bottom  of  his  glass 
against  the  top  of  Mr.  Flintwinch's,  and  drank  to  the  inti- 
mate acquaintance  he  foresaw.  Mr.  Flintwinch  gravely 
pledged  him,  and  drank  all  the  wine  he  could  get,  and  said 
nothing.  As  often  as  Mr.  Blandois  clinked  glasses  (which 
was  at  every  replenishment),  Mr.  Flintwinch  stolidly  did  his 
part  of  the  clinking,  and  would  have  stolidly  done  his  com- 
panion's part  of  the  wine  as  well  as  his  own  ;  being,  except 
in  the  article  of  palate,  a  mere  cask. 

In  short,  Mr.  Blandois  found  that  to  pour  port-wine  into 
the  reticent  Flintwinch  was,  not  to  open  him  but  to  shut 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  367 

him  up.  Morever,  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  perfect 
ability  to  go  on  all  night  ;  or,  if  occasion  were,  all  next  day, 
and  all  next  night  ;  whereas  Mr.  Blandois  soon  grew  indis- 
tinctly conscious  of  swaggering  too  fiercely  and  boastfully. 
He  therefore  terminated  the  entertainment  at  the  end  of  the 
third  bottle. 

^'  You  will  draw  upon  us  to-morrow,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Flint- 
winch,  with  a  business-like  face  at  parting. 

'*  My  cabbage,"  returned  the  other,  taking  him  by  the 
collar  with  both  hands.  ^'  I'll  draw  upon  you;  have  no  fear. 
Adieu,  my  Flintwinch.  Receive  at  parting;"  here  he  gave 
him  a  southern  embrace,  and  kissed  him  soundly  on  both 
cheeks;  *^  the  word  of  a  gentleman  !  By  a  thousand  thun- 
ders, you  shall  see  me  again  !" 

He  did  not  present  himself  next  day,  though  the  letter  of 
advice  came  duly  to  hand.  Inquiring  after  him  at  night, 
Mr.  Flintwinch  found,  with  surprise,  that  he  had  paid  his  bill' 
and  gone  back  to  the  continent  by  way  of  Calais.  Never- 
theless, Jeremiah  scraped  out  of  his  cogitating  face  a  lively 
conviction  that  Mr.  Blandois  would  keep  his  word  on  this 
occasion,  and  would  be  seen  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXL 

SPIRIT. 

Any  body  may  pass,  any  day,  in  the  thronged  thorough- 
fares of  the  metropolis,  some  meager,  wrinkled,  yellow  old 
man  (who  might  be  supposed  to  have  dropped  from  the  stars, 
if  there  were  any  star  in  the  heavens  dull  enough  to  be  sus- 
pected of  casting  off  so  feeble  a  spark),  creeping  along  with 
a  scared  air,  as  though  bewildered  and  a  little  frightened  by 
the  noise  and  bustle.  This  old  man  is  always  a  little  old 
man.  If  he  were  ever  a  big  old  man,  he  has  shrunk  into  a 
little  old  man;  if  he  were  always  a  little  old  man,  he  has 
dwindled  into  a  less  old  man.  His  coat  is  of  a  color,  and 
cut,  that  never  was  the  mode  anywhere,  at  any  period. 
Clearly,  it  was  not  made  for  him,  or  for  any  individual  mor- 
tal. Some  wholesale  contractor  measured  fate  for  five 
thousand  coats  of  such  quality,  and  fate  has  lent  this  old 
coat  to  this  old  man,  as  one  of  a  long  unfinished  line  of  many 
old  men.  It  has  always  large  dull  metal  buttons,  similar  to 
no  Other  buttons.    This  old  man  wear§  a  hat,  ^  thumbed 


368  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  napless  and  yet  an  obdurate  hat,  which  has  never  adapted 
itself  to  the  shape  of  his  poor  head.  His  coarse  shirt  and 
his  coarse  neckcloth  have  no  more  individuality  than  his  coat 
and  hat;  they  have  the  same  character  of  not  being  his — of 
not  being  any  body's.  Yet  this  old  man  wears  these  clothes 
with  a  certain  unaccustomed  air  of  being  dressed  and  elabo- 
rated for  the  public  ways;  as  though  he  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  in  a  night-cap  and  gown.  And  so,  like  the 
country  mouse  in  the  second  year  of  a  famine,  come  to  see 
the  town-mouse,  and  timidly  threading  his  way  to  the  town- 
mouse's  lodging  through  a  city  of  cats,  this  old  man  passes 
in  the  streets. 

Sometimes,  on  holidays  toward  evening,  he  will  be  seen 
to  walk  with  a  slightly  increased  infirmity,  and  his  old  eyes 
will  glimmer  with  a  moist  and  marshy  light.  Then  the  little 
old  man  is  drunk.  A  very  small  measure  will  overset  him  ; 
he  may  be  bowled  off  his  unsteady  legs  with  a  half-pint  pot. 
Some  pitying  acquaintance — chance  acquaintance  very  often 
— has  warmed  up  his  weakness  with  a  treat  of  beer,  and  the 
consequence  will  be  the  lapse  of  a  longer  time  than  usual  be- 
fore he  shall  pass  again.  For,  the  little  old  man  is  going 
home  to  the  workhouse;  and  on  his  good  behavior  they  do 
not  let  him  out  often  (though  methinks  they  might,  consider- 
ing the  few  years  he  has  before  him  to  go  out  in,  under  the 
sun);  and  on  his  bad  behavior  they  shut  him  up  closer  than 
ever,  in  a  grove  of  two  score  and  nineteen  more  old  men, 
every  one  of  whom  smells  of  all  the  others. 

Mrs.  Plornish's  father,  a  poor  little  reedy  piping  old  gen- 
tleman, like  a  worn-out  bird;  who  had  been  in  what  he  called 
the  music-binding  business,  and  met  with  great  misfortunes, 
and  who  had  seldom  been  able  to  make  his  way,  or  to  see  it  or 
to  pay  it,  or  to  do  any  thing  at  all  with  it  but  find  it  no  thorough- 
fare,— had  retired  of  his  own  accord  to  the  work-house  which 
was  appointed  by  law  to  be  the  Good  Samaritan  of  his  district 
(without  the  twopence,  which  was  held  political  economy), 
on  the  settlement  of  that  execution  which  had  carried  Mr. 
Plornish  to  the  Marshalsea  College.  Previous  to  his  son-in- 
law's  difficulties  coming  to  that  head,  old  Nandy  (he  was  al- 
ways so  called  in  his  legal  retreat,  but  he  was  old  Mr.  Nandy 
among  the  Bleeding  Hearts)  had  sat  in  a  corner  of  the  Plor- 
nish fireside,  and  taken  his  bite  and  sup  out  of  the  Plornish 
cupboard.  He  still  hoped  to  resume  that  domestic  position, 
when  fortune  should  smile  upon  his  son-in-law;  in  the  mean- 
time, while  she  preserved  an  immovable  countenance,  he  was 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  '369 

and  resolved  to  remain,  one  of  these  little  old  men  in  a  grove 
of  little  old  men  with  a  community  of  flavor. 

But,  no  poverty  in  him,  and  no  coat  on  him  that  never  was 
the  mode,  and  no  Old  Men's  Ward  for  his  dwelling-place, 
could  quench  his  daughter's  admiration.  Mrs.  Plornish  was 
as  proud  of  her  father's  talents  as  she  could  possibly  have 
"  been  if  they  had  made  him  lord  chancellor.  She  had  as  firm 
a  belief  in  the  sweetness  and  propriety  of  his  manners  as  she 
could  possibly  have  had  if  he  had  been  lord  chamberlain. 
The  poor  little  old  man  knew  some  pale  and  vapid  little 
songs,  long  out  of  date,  about  Chloe,  and  Phyllis,  and  Stre- 
phon  being  wounded  by  the  son  of  Venus;  and  for  Mrs. 
Plornish  there  was  no  such  music  at  the  opera,  as  the  small 
internal  flutterings  and  chirpings  wherein  he  would  discharge 
himself  of  these  ditties,  like  a  weak,  little,  broken  barrel- 
organ,  ground  by  a  baby.  On  his  *'  days  out,"  those  flecks 
of  light  in  his  flat  vista  of  pollard  old  men,  it  was  at  once 
Mrs.  Plornish's  delight  and  sorrow,  when  he  was  strong  with 
meat,  and  had  taken  his  full  half-pennyworth  of  porter,  to  say, 
"  Sing  us  a  song,  father."  Then  would  he  give  them  Chloe, 
and  if  he  were  in  pretty  good  spirits,  Phyllis  also — Strephon 
he  had  hardly  been  up  to,  since  he  went  into  retirement — 
and  then  would  Mrs.  Plornish  declare  she  did  believe  there 
never  was  such  a  singer  as  father,  and  wipe  her  eyes. 

If  he  had  come  from  court  on  these  occasions,  nay,  if  he 
had  been  the  noble  refrigerator  come  home  triumphantly  from 
a  foreign  court  to  be  presented  and  promoted  on  his  last  tre- 
mendous failure,  Mrs.  Plornish  could  not  have  handed  him 
with  greater  elevation  about  Bleeding  Heart  Yard.  "  Here's 
father,"  she  would  say,  presenting  him  to  a  neighbor.  "  Father 
will  soon  be  home  with  us  for  good,  now.  Ain't  father  look- 
ing well  ?  Father's  a  sweeter  singer  than  ever  ;  you'd  never 
have  forgotten  it,  if  you'd  a-heard  him  just  now."  As  to  Mr. 
Plornish,  he  had  married  these  articles  of  belief  in  marrying 
Mr.  Nandy's  daughter,  and  only  wondered  how  it  was  that  so 
gifted  an  old  gentleman  had  not  made  a  fortune.  This  he 
attributed,  after  much  reflection,  to  his  musical  genius  not 
having  been  scientifically  developed  in  his  youth.  "  For 
why,"  argued  Mr.  Plornish,  "why  go  a  binding  music  when 
you've  got  it  in  yourself  ?     That's  where  it  is,  I  consider." 

Old  Nandy  had  a  patron  :  one  patron.  He  had  a  patron 
who  in  a  certain  sumptuous  way — an  apologetic  way,  as  if 
he  constantly  took  an  admiring  audience  to  witness  that  he 
really  could  not  help  being  more  free  with  this  old  fellow 


370  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

than  they  might  have  expected,  on  account  of  his  simplicity 
and  poverty — was  mightily  good  to  him.  Old  Nandy  had 
been  several  times  to  the  Marshalsea  College,  communica- 
ting with  his  son-in-law  during  his  short  durance  there  ;  and 
had  happily  acquired  to  himself,  and  had  by  degrees  and  in 
course  of  time  much  improved  the  patronage  of  the  father  ^ 
of  that  national  institution. 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  this  old  man,  as 
if  the  old  man  held  of  him  in  vassalage  under  some  feudal 
tenure.  He  made  little  treats  and  teas  for  him,  as  if  he 
came  in  with  his  homage  from  some  outlying  district  where 
the  tenantry  were  in  a  primitive  state.  It  seemed  as  if  there 
were  moments  when  he  could  by  no  means  have  sworn  but 
that  the  old  man  was  an  ancient  retainer  of  his,  who  had 
been  meritoriously  faithful.  When  he  mentioned  him,  he 
spoke  of  him  casually  as  his  old  pensioner.  He  had  a  won- 
derful  satisfaction  in  seeing  him,  and  on  commenting  on  his 
decayed  condition  after  he  was  gone.  It  appeared  to  him 
amazing  that  he  could  hold  up  his  head  at  all,  poor  creature. 
"  In  the  work-house,  sir,  the  union  ;  no  privacy,  no  visi- 
tors, no  station,  no  respect,  no  specialty.     Most  deplorable  !" 

It  was  old  Nandy's  birthday,  and  they  let  him  out.  He 
said  nothing  about  it  being  his  birthday,  or  they  might  have 
kept  him  in  ;  for  such  old  men  should  not  be  born.  He 
passed  along  the  streets  as  usual  to  Bleeding  Heart  Yard, 
and  had  his  dinner  with  his  daughter  and  son-in-law,  and 
gave  them  Phyllis.  He  had  hardly  concluded,  when  Little 
Dorrit  looked  in  to  see  how  they  all  were. 

"  Miss  Dorrit,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish, /'  here's  father  !  Ain't 
he  looking  nice  ?     And  such  voice  he's  in  !  " 

Little  Dorrit  gave  him  her  hand,  and  smilingly  said  she 
had  not  seen  him  this  long  time. 

^'  No,  they're  rather  hard  on  poor  father,"  said  Mrs.  Plor- 
nish  with  a  lengthening  face,  ^^  and  don't  let  him  have  half  as 
much  change  and  fresh  air  as  would  benefit  him.  But  he'll 
soon  be  home  for  good,  now.     Won't  you,  father  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  hope  so.     In  good  time,  please  God." 

Here  Mr.  Plornish  delivered  himself  of  an  oration  which 
he  invariably  made,  word  for  word  the  same,  on  all  such  op- 
portunities.    It  was  couched  in  the  following  terms  : 

"  John  Edward  Nandy.  Sir.  While  there's  a  ounce  of 
wittles  or  drink  of  any  sort  in  this  present  roof,  you're  fully 
welcome  to  your  share  on  it.  While  there's  a  handful  of  fire 
or  a  mouthful  of  bread  in  this  present  roofj  you're  fully  wel- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  371 

come  to  your  share  on  it.  If  so  be  as  there  should  be  nothing 
in  this  present  roof,  you  should  be  as  welcome  to  your  share 
on  it  as  if  it  was  something,  much  or  little.  And  this  is  what 
I  mean  and  so  I  don't  deceive  you,  and  consequently  which 
is  to  stand  out  is  to  entreat  of  you,  and  therefore  why  not 
do  it  ? " 

To  this  lucid  address,  which  Mr.  Plornish  always  deliv- 
ered as  if  he  had  composed  it  (as  no  doubt  he  had)  with 
enormous  labor,  Mrs.  Plornish's  father  pipingly  replied  : 

"I  thank  you  kindly,  Thomas,  and  I  know  your  inten- 
tions well,  which  is  the  same  I  thank  you  kindly  for.  But 
no,  Thomas.  Until  such  time  as  it's  not  to  take  it  out  of 
your  children's  mouths,  which  take  it  is,  and  call  it  by  what 
name  you  will  it  do  remain  and  equally  deprive  though  may 
they  come,  and  too  soon  they  can  not  come,  no  Thomas, 
no!" 

Mrs.  Plornish,  who  had  been  turning  her  face  a  little 
away  with  a  corner  of  her  apron  in  her  hand,  brought  her- 
self back  t  o  the  conversation  again,  by  telling  Miss  Dorrit 
that  father  was  going  over  the  water  to  pay  his  respects,  un- 
less she  knew  of   any  reason  why  it  might  not  be  agreeable. 

Her  answer  was,  '^  I  am  going  straight  home,  and  if  he 
will  come  with  me  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  take  care  of  him — so 
glad,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  always  thoughtful  of  the  feelings  of 
the  weak,  "  of  his  company." 

*'  There,  father  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Plornish.  "  Ain't  you  a  gay 
young  man  to  be  going  for  a  walk  along  with  Miss  Dorrit ! 
Let  me  tie  your  neck-handkerchief  into  a  regular  good  bow, 
for  you're  a  regular  beau  yourself,  father,  if  ever  there  was 
one." 

With  this  filial  joke  his  daughter  smarted  him  up,  and 
gave  him  a  loving  hug,  and  stood  at  the  door  with  her  weak 
child  in  her  arms,  and  her  strong  child  tumbling  down  the 
steps,  looking  after  her  little  old  father  as  he  toddled  away 
with  his  arm  under  Little  Dorrit's. 

They  walked  at  a  slow  pace,  and  Little  Dorrit  took  him 
by  the  Iron  Bridge  and  sat  him  down  there  for  a  rest,  and 
they  looked  over  at  the  water  and  talked  about  the  shippings 
and  the  old  man  mentioned  what  he  would  do  if  he  had  a 
ship  full  of  gold  coming  home  to  him  (his  plan  was  to  take  a 
noble  lodging  for  the  Plornishes  and  himself  at  a  tea  gar- 
dens, and  live  there  all  the  rest  of  their  lives,  attended  on 
by  the  waiter)  and  it  was  a  special  birthday  for  the  old  man. 
They  were  within  five  minutes  of  their  destination,  when,  at 


37^  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

the  corner  of  her  own  street,  they  came  upon  Fanny  in  her 
new  bonnet  bound  for  the  same  port. 

"  Why,  good  gracious  me,  Amy  !  "  cried  the  young  lady, 
starting.     ^'  You  never  mean  it  !  " 

"  Mean  what,  Fanny  dear  ?  " 

"  Well !  I  could  have  believed  a  great  deal  of  you,"  re- 
turned the  young  lady  with  burning  indignation,  ^*  but  I 
don't  think  even  I  could   have  believed  this,  of  even  you  !  " 

^'  Fanny  !  "  cried  Little  Dorrit,  wounded  and  astonished. 

*^  Oh  !  Don't  Fanny  me,  you  mean  little  thing,  don't  ! 
The  idea  of  coming  along  the  open  streets,  in  the  broad 
light  of  day,  with  a  pauper  ! "  (firing  off  the  last  word  as  if 
it  were  a  ball  from  an  air-gun). 

^'  Oh  Fanny  !  " 

**  I  tell  you  not  to  Fanny  me,  for  I'll  not  submit  to  it  !  I 
never  knew  such  a  thing.  The  way  in  which  you  are  re- 
solved and  determined  to  disgrace  us,  on  all  occasions,  is 
really  infamous.     You  bad  little  thing  !  " 

^^  Does  it  disgrace  any  body,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  very  gently, 
*^  to  take  care  of  this  poor  old  man  ?  " 

"  Yes,  miss,"  returned  her  sister,  ^'  and  you  ought  to  know 
it  does.  And  you  do  know  it  does,  and  you  do  it  because 
you  know  it  does.  The  principal  pleasure  of  your  life  is  to 
remind  your  family  of  their  misfortunes.  And  the  next 
great  pleasure  of  your  existence  is  to  keep  low  company. 
But,  however,  if  you  have  no  sense  of  decency,  I  have.  You'll 
please  to  allow  me  to  go  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  un- 
molested." 

With  this  she  bounced  across  to  the  opposite  pavement. 
The  old  disgrace,  who  had  been  deferentially  bowing  a  pace 
or  two  off  (for  Little  Dorrit  had  let  his  arm  go  in  wonder 
when  Fanny  began),  and  who  had  been  hustled  and  cursed 
by  impatient  passengers  for  stopping  the  way,  rejoined  his 
companion,  rather  giddy,  and  said,  ''  I  hope  nothing's  wrong 
with  your  honored  father,  miss  ?  I  hope  there's  nothing  the 
matter  in  the  honored  family  ? " 

*'  No,  no,"  returned  Little  Dorrit.  "  No,  thank  you.  Give 
me  your  arm  again,  Mr.  Nandy.  We  shall  soon  be  there 
now." 

So  she  talked  to  him  as  she  had  talked  before,  and  they 
came  to  the  lodge  and  found  Mr.  Chivery  on  the  lock,  and 
went  in.  Now,  it  happened  that  the  father  of  the  Marshal- 
sea  was  sauntering  toward  the  lodge  at  the  moment  when  they 
were  coming  out  of  it,  ent^.ring  the  prison  arm  in  arm.     As 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  373 

the  spectacle  of  their  approach  met  his  view,  he  displayed 
the  utmost  agitation  and  despondency  of  mind  ;  and — al- 
together regardless  of  old  Nandy,  who,  making  his  rever- 
ence, stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  as  he  always  did  in  that 
gracious  presence — turned  about,  and  hurried  in  at  his  own 
doorway  and  up  the  staircase. 

Leaving  the  old  unfortunate,  whom  in  an  evil  hour  she 
■  had  taken  under  her  protection,  with  a  hurried  promise  to 
return  to  him  directly,  Little  Dorrit  hastened  after  her 
father,  and  on  the  staircase,  found  Fanny  following  her,  and 
flouncing  up  with  offended  dignity.  The  three  came  into 
the  room  almost  together  ;  and  the  father  sat  down  in 
his  chair,  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  uttered  a 
groan. 

''  Of  course,"  said  Fanny.  "  Very  proper.  Poor,  afflicted 
pa  !     Now,  I  hope  you  believe  me,  miss  ?  " 

'^  What  is  it,  father?"  cried  Little  Dorrit,  bending  over 
him.  "Have  I  made  you  unhappy,  father?  Not  I,  I 
hope  !  " 

"  You  hope,  indeed  !  I  dare  say  !  Oh,  you  " — Fanny 
paused  for  a  sufficiently  strong  expression — ''  you  common- 
minded  little  Amy  !     You  complete  prison-child  !  " 

He  stopped  these  angry  reproaches  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand,  and  sobbed  out,  raising  his  face,  and  shaking  his  mel- 
ancholy head  at  his  younger  daughter,  "  Amy,  I  know  that 
you  are  innocent  in  intention.  But  you  have  cut  me  to  the 
soul." 

"Innocent  in  intention!"  the  implacable  Fanny  struck 
in.  "  Stuff  in  intention  !  Low  in  intention  !  Lowering  of 
the  family  in  intention  !  " 

''  Father  !  "  cried  Little  Dorrit,  pale  and  trembling.  "  I 
am  very  sorry.  Pray  forgive  me.  Tell  me  how  it  is,  that  I 
may  not  do  it  again  !  " 

"  How  it  is,  you  prevaricating  little  piece  of  goods  !  " 
cried  Fanny.  "You  know  how  it  is.  I  have  told  you 
already,  so  don't  fly  in  the  face  of  Providence  by  attempting 
to  deny  it  !  " 

"  Hush  !  Amy,"  said  the  father,  passing  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  several  times  across  his  face,  and  then  grasp- 
ing it  convulsively  in  the  hand  that  dropped  across  his  knee. 
"  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  keep  you  select  here  ;  I  have 
done  what  I  could  to  retain  you  a  position  here.  I  may 
have  succeeded  ;  I  may  not.  You  may  know  it ;  you  may  not. 
I  give  no  opinion.     I  have  endured  every  thing   here  but 


374  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

humiliation.  That  I  have  happily  been  spared — until  this 
day." 

Here  his  convulsive  grasp  unclosed  itself,  and  he  put  his 
pocket  handkerchief  to  his  eyes  again.  Little  Dorrit,  on  the 
ground  beside  him,  with  her  imploring  hand  upon  his  arm, 
watched  him  remorsefully.  Coming  out  of  his  fit  of  grief,  he 
clenched  his  pocket  handkerchief  once  more. 

"  Humiliation  I  have  happily  been  spared  until  this  day. 
Through  all  my  troubles  there  has  been  that — spirit  in  my- 
self, and  that — that  submission  to  it,  if  I  may  use  the  term, 
in  those  about  me,  which  has  spared  me — ha — humiliation. 
But  this  day,  this  minute,  I  have  keenly  felt  it." 

*'  Of  course  !  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ? "  exclaimed  the 
irrepressible  Fanny.  "  Careering  and  prancing  about  with  a 
pauper  !  "  (air-gun  again). 

"  But,  dear  father,"  cried  Little  Dorrit,  *'  I  don't  justify 
myself  for  having  wounded  your  dear  heart — no  !  Heaven 
knows  I  don't !  "  She  clasped  her  hands  in  quite  an  agony 
of  distress.  "  I  do  nothing  but  beg  and  pray  you  to  be 
comforted  and  overlook  it.  But  if  I  had  not  known  that 
you  were  kind  to  the  old  man  yourself,  and  took  much 
notice  of  him,  and  were  always  glad  to  see  him,  I  would  not 
have  come  here  with  him,  father,  I  would  not,  indeed.  What 
I  have  been  so  unhappy  as  to  do,  I  have  done  in  mistake. 
I  would  not  willfully  bring  a  tear  to  your  eyes,  dear  love  !  " 
said  Little  Dorrit,  her  heart  well-nigh  broken,  ^^  for  any  thing 
the  world  could  give  me,  or  any  thing  it  could  take  away." 

Fanny  with  a  partly  angry  and  partly  repentant  sob,  began 
to  cry  herself,  and  to  say — as  this  young  lady  always  said 
when  she  was  half  in  a  passion  and  half  out  of  it,  half  spite- 
ful with  herself  and  half  spiteful  with  every  body  else — that 
she  wished  she  was  dead. 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea  in  the  meantime  took  his 
young  daughter  to  his  breast,  and  patted  her  head. 

"  There,  there  !  Say  no  more.  Amy,  say  no  more,  my 
child.  I  will  forget  it  as  soon  as  I  can.  I,"  w^ith  hysterical 
cheerfulness,  *'  I — shall  soon  be  able  to  dismiss  it.  It  is 
perfectly  true,  my  dear,  that  I  am  always  glad  to  see  my  old 
pensioner — as  such,  as  such — and  that  I  do — ha — extend  as 
much  protection  and  kindness  to  the — hum — the  bruised 
reed — I  trust  I  may  so  call  him  without  impropriety — as 
in  my  circumstances,  I  can.  It  is  quite  true  that  this  is  the 
case,  my  dear  child.  At  the  same  time,  I  preserve  in  doing 
this,    if   I  may — ha — if  I  may   use   the   expression — spirit. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  375 

Becoming  spirit.  And  there  are  some  things  which  are," 
he  stopped  to  sob,  '^  irreconcilable  with  that,  and  wound  that 
— wound  it  deeply.  It  is  not  that  I  have  seen  my  good  Amy 
attentive,  and — ha — condescending  to  my  old  pensioner — it 
is  not  that  that  hurts  me.  It  is,  if  I  am  to  close  the  painful 
subject  by  being  explicit,  that  I  have  seen  my  child,  mv 
own  child,  my  own  daughter,  coming  into  this  college  out  of 
the  public  streets — smiling  !  smiling  ! — arm  in  arm  with — 
O  my  God,  a  livery  '  " 

This  reference  to  the  coat  of  no  cut  and  no  time,  the 
unfortunate  gentleman  gasped  forth,  in  a  scarcely  audible 
voice,  and  with  his  clenched  pocket  handkerchief  raised  in 
the  air.  His  excited  feelings  might  have  found  some  further 
painful  utterance,  but  for  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  had 
been  already  twice  repeated,  and  to  which  Fanny  (still  wish- 
ing herself  dead,  and  indeed  now  going  so  far  as  to  add 
buried)  cried  ''  Come  in  !  " 

"  Ah,  young  John  !  "  said  the  father,  in  an  altered  and 
calmed  voice.     *'  What  is  it,  young  John  ?  " 

"  A  letter  for  you,  sir,  being  left  in  the  lodge  just  this 
minute,  and  a  message  with  it,  I  thought,  happening  to  be 
there  myself,  sir,  I  would  bring  it  to  your  room.  The  speak- 
er's attention  was  much  distracted  by  the  piteous  spectacle 
of  Little  Dorrit  at  her  father's  feet,  with  her  head  turned 
away. 

"  Indeed,  John  ?     Thank  you." 

"  The  letter  is  from  Mr.  Clennam,  sir — it's  the  answer — 
and  the  message  was,  sir,  that  Mr.  Clennam  also  sent  his 
compliments,  and  word  that  he  would  do  himself  the  pleasure 
of  calling  this  afternoon,  hoping  to  see  you,  and  likewise," 
attention  more  distracted  than  before,  "Miss  Amy." 

"  Oh  !  "  As  the  father  glanced  into  the  letter  (there  was 
a  bank-note  in  it),  he  reddened  a  little,  and  patted  Amy  on 
the  head  afresh.  "  Thank  you,  young  John.  Quite  right. 
Much  obliged  to  you  for  your  attention.     No  one  waiting  ?  " 

^*  No,  sir,  no  one  waiting." 

"  Thank  you,  John.     How  is  your  mother,  young  John  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  she's  not  quite  as  well  as  we  could  wish 
— in  fact,  we  none  of  us  are,  except  father — but  she's  pretty 
well,  sir." 

*^  Say  we  send  our  remembrances,  will  you  ?  Say,  kind 
remembrances,  if  you  please,  young  John." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  will."  And  Mr.  Chivery,  junior,  went 
his  way,  having  spontaneously  composed  on  the  spot  an  en- 


376  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

tirely  new  epitaph  for  himself,  to  the  effect  that  here  lay  the 
body  of  John  Chivery,  who,  having  at  such  a  date  beheld 
the  idol  of  his  life,  in  grief  and  tears,  and  feeling  unable  to 
bear  the  harrowing  spectacle,  immediately  repaired  to  the 
abode  of  his  inconsolable  parents,  and  terminated  his  exis- 
tence, by  his  own  rash  act. 

"  There,  there.  Amy  !  "  said  the  father,  when  young  John 
had  closed  the  door,  "  let  us  say  no  more  about  it/'  The 
last  few  minutes  had  improved  his  spirits  remarkably,  and  he 
was  quite  lightsome.  ^'  Where  is  my  old  pensioner  all  this 
while  ?  We  must  not  leave  him  by  himself  any  longer,  or  he 
will  begin  to  suppose  he  is  not  welcome,  and  that  would  pain 
me.     Will  you  fetch  him,  my  child,  or  shall  I  ?  " 

"  If  you  wouldn't  mind,  father,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  trying 
to  bring  her  sobbing  to  a  close. 

"  Certainly  I  will  go,  my  dear.  I  forgot;  your  eyes  are 
rather.  There  !  Cheer  up,  Amy.  Don't  be  uneasy  about 
me.  I  am  quite  myself  again,  my  love,  quite  myself.  Go  to 
your  room,  Amy,  and  make  your  face  look  comfortable  and 
pleasant  to  receive  Mr.  Clennam." 

^'  I  would  rather  stay  in  my  own  room,  father,"  returned 
Little  Dorrit,  finding  it  more  difficult  than  before  to  regain 
her  composure.     '^  I  would  far  rather  not  see  Mr.  Clennam." 

*'  Oh,  fie,  fie,  my  dear,  that's  folly.  Mr.  Clennam  is  a  very 
gentlemanly  man — very  gentlemanly.  A  little  reserved  at 
times;  but  I  will  say  extremely  gentlemanly.  I  couldn't 
think  of  your  not  being  here  to  receive  Mr.  Clennam,  my 
dear,  especially  this  afternoon.  So  go  and  freshen  yourself 
up.  Amy;  go  and  freshen  yourself  up,  like  a  good  girl." 

Thus  directed,  Little  Dorrit  dutifully  rose  and  obeyed  : 
only  pausing  for  a  moment  as  she  went  out  of  the  room,  to 
give  her  sister  a  kiss  of  reconciliation.  Upon  which,  that 
young  lady,  feeling  much  harassed  in  her  mind,  and  having 
for  the  time  worn  out  the  wish  with  which  she  generally  re- 
lieved it,  conceived  and  executed  the  brilliant  idea  of  wish- 
ing old  Nandy  dead,  rather  than  that  he  should  come  bother- 
ing there  like  a  disgusting,  tiresome,  wicked  wretch,  and 
making  mischief  between  two  sisters. 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea,  even  humming  a  tune,  and 
wearing  his  black  velvet  cap  a  little  on  one  side,  so  much 
improved  were  his  spirits,  went  down  into  the  yard,  and  found 
his  old  pensioner  standing  hat  in  hand  just  within  the  gate, 
as  he  had  stood  all  this  time.  "  Come,  Nandy  !  "  said  he, 
with  great  suavity.     ''  Come  up  stairs,  Nandy;  you  know  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  377 

way;  why  don't  you  come  up  stairs  ?"  He  went  the  length, 
on  this  occasion,  of  giving  him  his  hand,  and  saying,  "  How 
are  you,  Nandy  ?  Are  you  pretty  well  ?  "  To  which  that 
vocalist  returned,  "  I  thank  you,  honored  sir,  I  am  all  the 
better  for  seeing  your  honor."  As  they  went  along  the  yard, 
the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  presented  him  to  a  collegian  of 
recent  date.  ^'  An  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  sir,  an  old  pen- 
sioner." And  then  said,  **  Be  covered,  my  good  Nandy;  put 
your  hat  on,"  with  great  consideration. 

His  patronage  did  not  stop  here;  for  he  charged  Maggy 
to  get  the  tea  ready,  and  instructed  her  to  buy  certain  tea- 
cakes,  fresh  butter,  eggs,  cold  ham,  and  shrimps;  to  purchase 
which  collation,  he  gave  her  a  bank-note  for  ten  pounds,  lay- 
ing strict  injunctions  on  her  to  be  careful  of  the  change. 
These  preparations  were  in  an  advanced  stage  of  progress, 
and  his  daughter  Amy  had  come  back  with  her  work,  when 
Clennam  presented  himself.  Whom  he  most  graciously  re- 
ceived, and  besought  to  join  their  meal. 

**  Amy,  my  love,  you  know  Mr.  Clennam  even  better  than 
I  have  the  happiness  of  doing.  Fanny,  my  dear,  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  Mr.  Clennam."  Fanny  acknowledged  him 
haughtily;  the  position  she  tacitly  took  up  in  all  such  cases 
being  that  there  was  a  vast  conspiracy  to  insult  the  family  by 
not  understanding  it,  or  sufficiently  deferring  to  it,  and  here 
was  one  of  the  conspirators.  "  This,  Mr.  Clennam,  you  must 
know,  is  an  old  pensioner  of  mine,  old  Nandy,  a  very  faith- 
ful old  man."  (He  always  spoke  of  him  as  an  object  of 
great  antiquity,  but  he  was  two  or  three  years  younger  than 
himself.)  **  Let  me  see.  You  know  Plornish,  I  think  ?  I 
think  my  daughter  Amy  has  mentioned  to  me  that  you  know 
poor  Plornish  ? " 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  said  Arthur  Clennam. 

"  Well,  sir,  this  is  Mrs.  Plornish's  father." 

"  Indeed  ?     I  am  glad  to  see  him." 

"  You  would  be  more  glad  if  you  knew  his  many  good 
qualities,  Mr.  Clennam.'* 

"  I  hope  I  shall  come  to  know  them,  through  knowing 
him,"  said  Arthur,  secretly  pitying  the  bowed  and  submis- 
sive figure. 

"  It  is  a  holiday  with  him,  and  he  comes  to  see  his  old 
friends  who  are  always  glad  to  see  him,"  observed  the  father 
of  the  Marshalsea.  Then  he  added  behind  his  hand, 
(**  Union,  poor  old  fellow.     Out  for  the  day.") 

By  this  time  Maggy,  quietly  assisted  by  her  little  mother, 


378  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

had  spread  the  board,  and  the  repast  was  ready.  It  being 
hot  weather  and  the  prison  very  close,  the  window  was  as 
wide  open  as  it  could  be  pushed.  "  If  Maggy  will  spread 
that  newspaper  on  the  window-sill,  my  dear,"  remarked  the 
father  complacently  and  in  a  half  whisper  to  Little  Dorrit, 
"  my  old  pensioner  can  have  his  tea  there,  while  we  are 
having  ours." 

So,  with  a  gulf  between  him  and  the  good  company  of 
about  a  foot  in  width,  standard  measure,  Mrs.  Plornish's 
father  was  handsomely  regaled.  Clennam  had  never  seen 
any  thing  like  his  magnanimous  protection  by  that  other 
father,  he  of  the  Marshalsea,  and  was  lost  in  the  contempla- 
tion of  its  many  wonders. 

The  most  striking  of  these  was  perhaps  the  relishing  man- 
ner in  which  he  remarked  on  the  pensioner's  infirmities 
and  failings.  As  if  he  were  a  gracious  keeper,  making  a 
running  commentary  on  the  decline  of  the  harmless  animal 
he  exhibited. 

*'  Not  ready  for  more  ham,  yet,  Nandy  ?  Why,  how  slow 
you  are  !  (His  last  teeth,"  he  explained  to  the  company, 
^'  are  going,  poor  old  boy.") 

At  another  time,  he  said,  *'  No  shrimps,  Nandy  ?  '*  and  on 
his  not  instantly  replying,  observed,  {"  His  hearing  is  becom- 
ing very  defective.     He'll  be  deaf  directly.") 

At  another  time  he  asked  him,  "  Do  you  walk  much, 
Nandy,  about  the  yard  within  the  walls  of  that  place  of 
yours  ? " 

^'  No,  sir;  no.     I  haven't  any  great  liking  for  that." 

^'  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  assented.  ''  Very  natural."  Then 
he  privately  informed  the  circle  (**Legs  going.") 

Once,  he  asked  the  pensioner,  in  that  general  clemency 
which  asked  him  any  thing  to  keep  him  afloat,  how  old  his 
younger  grandchild  was  ? 

"  John  Edward,"  said  the  pensioner,  slowly  laying  down 
his  knife  and  fork  to  consider.  "  How  old,  sir  1  Let  me 
think  now." 

The  father  of  ^  the  Marshalsea  tapped  his  forehead. 
(^^  Memory  weak.") 

"  John  Edward,  sir  ?  Well,  I  really  forget  I  couldn't 
say  at  this  minute,  sir,  whether  it's  two  and  two  months,  or 
whether  it's  two  and  five  months.     It's  one  or  the  other." 

**  Don't  distress  yourself  by  worrying  your  mind  about  it," 
ne  returned  with  infinite  forbearance.  ('^  Faculties  evidently 
aecaying — old  man  rusts  in  the  life  he  leads  1  ") 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  379 

The  more  of  these  discoveries  that  he  persuaded  himself 
he  made  in  the  pensioner,  the  better  he  appeared  to  like 
him;  and  when  he  got  out  of  his  chair  after  tea,  to  bid  the 
pensioner  good-by,  on  his  intimating  that  he  feared,  honored 
sir,  his  time  was  running  out,  he  made  himself  look  as  erect 
and  strong  as  possible. 

"  We  don't  call  this  a  shilling,  Nandy,  you  know,*'  he  said, 
putting  one  in  his  hand.     ^'  We  call  it  tobacco." 

*'  Honored  sir,  I  thank  you.  It  shall  buy  tobacco.  My 
thanks  and  duty  to  Miss  Amy  and  Miss  Fanny.  I  wish  you 
good-night,  Mr.  Clennam." 

"  And  mind  you  don't  forget  us,  you  know,  Nandy,"  said 
the  father.  "  You  must  come  again,  mind,  whenever  you 
have  an  afternoon.  You  must  not  come  out  without  seeing 
us,  or  we  shall  be  jealous.  Good-night,  Nandy.  Be  very 
careful  how  you  descend  the  stairs,  Nandy;  they  are  rather 
uneven  and  worn."  With  that  he  stood  on  the  landing, 
watching  the  old  man  down;  and  when  he  came  into  the 
room  again,  said,  with  a  solemn  satisfaction  on  him,  "  A 
melancholy  sight  that,  Mr.  Clennam,  though  one  has  the 
consolation  of  knowing  that  he  doesn't  feel  it  himself.  The 
poor  old  fellow  is  a  dismal  wreck.  Spirit  broken  and  gone 
— pulverized — crushed  out  of  him,  sir,  completely  !  " 

As  Clennam  had  a  purpose  in  remaining,  he  said  what  he 
could  responsive  to  these  sentiments,  and  stood  at  the 
window  with  their  enunciator,  while  Maggy  and  her  little 
mother  washed  the  tea-service  and  cleared  it  away.  He 
noticed  that  his  companion  stood  at  the  window  wath  the 
air  of  an  affable  and  accessible  sovereign,  and  that,  when 
any  of  his  people  in  the  yard  below  looked  up,  his  recognition 
of  their  salutes  just  stopped  short  of  a  blessing. 

When  Little  Dorrit  had  her  work  on  the  table,  and 
Maggy  hers  on  the  bedstead,  Fanny  fell  to  tying  her  bonnet 
as  a  preliminary  to  her  departure.  Arthur,  still  having  his 
purpose,  still  remained.  At  this  time  the  door  opened,  with- 
out any  notice,  and  Mr.  Tip  came  in.  He  kissed  Amy  as 
she  started  up  to  meet  him,  nodded  to  Fanny,  nodded  to  his 
father,  gloomed  on  the  visitor  without  further  recognition, 
and  sat  down. 

"Tip,  dear,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  mildly,  shocked  by  this, 
"  don't  you  see — " 

*^  Yes,  I  see,  Amy.  If  you  refer  to  the  presence  of  any 
visitor  you  have  here — I  say,  if  you  refer  to  that,"  answered 


38o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Tip,  jerking  his  head  with  emphasis  toward  his  shoulder 
nearest  Clennam,  "  I  see  !  " 

"  Is  that  all  you  say  ?  *' 

"  That's  all  I  say.  And  I  suppose/'  added  the  lofty  young 
man,  after  a  moment's  pause,  *^  the  visitor  will  understand 
me,  when  I  say  that's  all  I  say.  In  short,  I  suppose  the 
visitor  will  understand,  that  he  hasn't  used  me  like  a 
gentleman." 

"  I  do  not  understand  that,*'  observed  the  obnoxious  per- 
sonage referred  to,  with  tranquillity. 

**'  No  ?  Why,  then,  to  make  it  clearer  to  you,  sir,  I  beg  to 
let  you  know,  that  when  I  address  what  I  call  a  properly 
worded  appeal,  and  an  urgent  appeal,  and  a  delicate  appeal, 
to  an  individual,  for  a  small  temporary  accommodation,  easily 
within  his  power — easily  within  his  power,  mind  ! — and  when 
that  individual  writes  back  word  to  me  that  he  begs  to  be  ex- 
cused, I  consider,  that  he  doesn't  treat  me  like  a  gentleman." 

The  father  of  the  Marshalsea,  who  had  surveyed  his  son 
in  silence,  no  sooner  heard  this  sentiment,  than  he  began  in 
angry  voice  : — 

*'  How  dare  you — "     But  his  son  stopped  him. 

*^  Now,  don't  ask  me  how  I  dare,  father,  because  that's 
bosh.  As  to  the  fact  of  the  line  of  conduct  I  choose  to  adopt 
toward  the  individual  present,  you  ought  to  be  proud  of  my 
showing  a  proper  spirit." 

**  I  should  think  so  !  "  cried  Fanny. 

"  A  proper  spirit  ? "  said  the  father.  "  Yes,  a  proper 
spirit  ;  a  becoming  spirit.  Is  it  come  to  this  that  my  son 
teaches  me — me — spirit  !  " 

"  Now,  don't  let  us  bother  about  it,  father,  or  have  any 
row  on  the  subject,  I  have  fully  made  up  my  mind  that  the 
individual  present  has  not  treated  me  like  a  gentleman.  And 
there's  an  end  of  it." 

"  But  there  is  not  an  end  of  it,  sir,"  returned  the  father. 
**  But  there  shall  not  be  an  end  of  it.  You  have  made  up 
your  mind  ?     You  have  made  up  your  mind  ? " 

^*  Yes,  /  have.     What's  the  good  of  keeping  on  like  that  ?  " 

"  Because,"  returned  the  father,  in  a  great  heat,  **  you  had 
no  right  to  make  up  your  mind  to  what  is  monstrous,  to  what 
is — ha — immoral,  to  what  is — hum — parricidal.  No,  Mr. 
Clennam,  I  beg,  sir.  Don't  ask  me  to  desist  ;  there  is  a — 
hum — a  general  principle  involved  here,  which  rises  even 
above  considerations  of — ha — hospitality.  I  object  to  the 
assertion  made  by  my  son.     I — ha — I  personally  repel  it." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  381 

"  Why,  what  is  it  to  you,  father  ?  **  returned  the  son,  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it  to  me,  sir  ?  I  have  a — hum — a  spirit,  sir,  that 
will  not  endure  it.  I,"  he  took  out  his  pocket  handkerchief 
again  and  dabbed  his  face.  "  I  am  outraged  and  insulted  by 
it.  Let  me  suppose  the  case  that  I  myself  may  at  a  certain 
time — ha — or  times,  have  made  a — hum — an  appeal,  and  a 
properly  worded  appeal,  and  a  delicate  appeal,  and  an  urgent 
appeal,  to  some  i-ndividual  for  a  small  temporary  accommoda- 
tion. Let  me  suppose  that  that  accommodation  could  have 
been  easily  extended,  and  was  not  extended,  and  that  that 
individual  informed  me  that  he  begged  to  be  excused.  Am  I 
to  be  told  by  my  own  son,  that  I  therefore  received  treatment 
not  due  to  a  gentleman,  and  that  I — ha — I  submitted  to  it  ?  " 
His  daughter  Amy  gently  tried  to  calm  him,  but  he  would 
not  on  any  account  be  calmed.  He  said  his  spirit  was  up, 
and  wouldn't  endure  this. 

Was  he  to  be  told  that,  he  wished  to  know  again,  by  his 
own  son,  on  his  own  hearth,  to  his  own  face  ?  Was  that 
humiliation  to  be  put  upon  him  by  his  own  blood  ? 

"  You  are  putting  it  on  yourself,  father,  and  getting  into 
all  this  injury  of  your  own  accord  !  "  said  the  young  gentle- 
man, morosely.  ^*  What  I  have  made  up  my  mind  about  has 
nothing  to  do  with  you.  What  I  said  had  nothing  to  do 
with  you.     Why  need  you  go  trying  on  other  people's  hats  ?  '^ 

"  I  reply  it  has  every  thing  to  do  with  me,"  returned  the 
.'ather.  *'  I  point  out  to  you,  sir,  with  indignation,  that — hum 
the — ha — delicacy  and  peculiarity  of  your  father's  position 
should  strike  you  dumb,  sir,  if  nothing  else  should,  in  laying 
down  such — ah — such  unnatural  principles.  Besides  ;  if  you 
are  not  filial,  sir,  if  you  discard  that  duty,  you  are  at  least — 
hum — not  a  Christian  ?  Are  you — ha — an  atheist  ?  And  is 
it  Christian,  let  me  ask  you,  to  stigmatize  and  denounce  an 
individual  for  begging  to  be  excused  this  time  when  the 
same  individual  may — ha — lespond  with  the  required  accom- 
modation next  time  ?  Is  it  the  part  of  a  Christian  not  to — 
hum — not  to  try  him  again  ?  "  He.  had  worked  himself  into 
quite  a  religious  glow  and  fervor. 

**  I  see  precious  well,"  said  Mr.  Tip,  rising,  "^  that  I  shall 
get  no  sensible  or  fair  argument  here  to-night,  and  so  the 
best  thing  I  can  do  is  to  cut.  Good-night,  Amy.  Don't  be 
vexed.  I  am  very  sorry  it  happens  here,  and  you  here,  upon 
my  soul  I  am;  but  I  can't  altogether  part  with  my  spirit, 
even  for  your  sake,  old  girl.'* 


382  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

With  those  words  he  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out,  accom- 
panied by  Miss  Fanny  ;  who  did  not  consider  it  spirited  on 
her  part  to  take  leave  of  Clennam  with  any  less  opposing 
demonstration  than  a  stare,  importing  that  she  had.  always 
known  him  for  one  of  the  large  body  of  conspirators. 

When  they  were  gone,  the  father  of  the  Marshalsea  was  at 
first  inclined  to  sink  into  despondency  again,  and  would 
have  done  so,  but  that  a  gentleman  opportunely  came  up 
within  a  minute  or  two  to  attend  him  to  the  Snuggery.  It  was 
the  gentleman  Clennam  had  seen  on  the  night  of  his  own 
accidental  detention  there,  who  had  that  impalpable  griev- 
ance about  the  misappropriated  fund  on  which  the  marshal 
was  supposed  to  batten.  He  presented  himself  as  a  deputa- 
tion to  escort  the  father  to  the  chair;  it  being  an  occasion  on 
which  he  had  promised  to  preside  over  the  assembled  col- 
legians in  the  enjoyment  of  a  little  harmony. 

"Such,  you  see,  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  the  father,  "are  the 
incongruities  of  my  position  here.  But  a  public  duty  !  No 
man,  I  am  sure,  would  more  readily  recognize  a  public  duty 
than  yourself." 

Clennam  besought  him  not  to  delay  a  moment. 

"  Amy,  my  dear,  if  you  can  persuade  Mr.  Clenn^am  to  stay 
longer,  I  can  leave  the  honors  of  our  poor  apology  for  an 
establishment  with  confidence  in  your  hands,  and  perhaps 
you  may  do  something  toward  erasing  from  Mr.  Clennam's 
mind  the — ha — untoward  and  unpleasant  circumstance 
which  has  occurred  since  tea-time." 

Clennam  assured  him  that  it  had  made  no  impression  on 
his  mind,  and  therefore  required  no  erasure. 

"  My  dear  sir,'*  said  the  father,  with  a  removal  of  his 
black  cap  and  a  grasp  of  Clennam's  hand,  combining  to 
express  the  safe  receipt  of  his  note  and  inclosure  that  after- 
noon, "  heaven  ever  bless  you  !  " 

So,  at  last,  Clennam's  purpose  in  remaining  was  attained, 
ind  he  could  speak  to  Little  Dorrit  with  nobody  by. 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 

MORE     FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Maggy  sat  at  her  work  in  her  great  white  cap,  with  its 
quantity  of  opaque  frilling  hiding  what  profile  she  had  (she 
had  none  to  spare),  and  her  serviceable  eye  brought  to  bear 


LITTLE  DORRiT.  383 

upon  her  occupation,  on  the  window  side  of  the  room. 
What  with  her  flapping  cap,  and  what  with  her  unserviceable 
eye,  she  was  quite  partitioned  off  from  her  little  mother, 
whose  seat  was  opposite  the  window.  The  tread  and  shuffle 
of  feet  on  the  pavement  of  the  yard  had  much  diminished 
since  the  taking  of  the  chair;  the  tide  of  collegians  having 
set  strongly  in  the  direction  of  harmony.  Some  few  who 
had  no  music  in  their  souls,  or  no  money  in  their  pockets, 
dawdled  about;  and  the  old  spectacle  of  the  visitor-wife  and 
the  depressed  unseasoned  prisoner  still  lingered  in  corners, 
as  broken  cobwebs  and  such  unsightly  discomforts  draggle 
in  corners  of  other  places.  It  was  the  quietest  time  the  col- 
lege knew,  saving  the  night  hours  when  the  collegians  took 
the  benefit  of  the  act  of  sleep.  The  occasional  rattle  of 
applause  upon  the  table  of  the  Snuggery,  denoted  the  success- 
ful termination  of  a  morsel  of  harmony;  or  the  responsive 
acceptance,  by  the  united  children,  of  some  toast  or  senti- 
ment offered  to  them  by  their  father.  Occasionally,  a  vocal 
strain  more  sonorous  than  the  generality  informed  the  listener 
that  some  boastful  bass  was  in  blue  water,  or  in  the  hunting 
field,  or  with  the  rein-deer,  or  on  the  mountain,  or  among 
the  heather;  but  the  marshal  of  the  Marshalsea  knew  better, 
and  had  got  him  hard  and  fast. 

As  Arthur  Clennam  moved  to  sit  down  by  the  side  of 
Little  Dorrit,  she  trembled  so  that  she  had  much  ado  to  hold 
her  needle.  Clennam  gently  put  his  hand  upon  her  work, 
and  said  ''  Dear  Little  Dorrit,  let  me  lay  it  down.'* 

She  yielded  it  to  him,  and  he  put  it  aside.  Her  hands 
were  then  nervously  clasping  together,  but  he  took  one  of 
them. 

"  How  seldom  I  have  seen  you  lately.  Little  Dorrit  !  " 

"  I  have  been  busy,  sir." 

"  But  I  heard  only  to-day,"  said  Clennam,  "  by  mere  acci- 
dent, of  your  having  been  with  those  good  people  close  by 
me.     Why  not  come  to  me,  then  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know.  Or  rather,  I  thought  you  might  be 
busy  too.     You  generally  are  now,  are  you  not  ?  " 

He  saw  her  trembling  little  form  and  her  downcast  face, 
and  the  eyes  that  drooped  the  moment  they  were  raised 
to  his — he  saw  them  almost  with  as  much  concern  as  ten- 
derness. 

"  My  child,  your  manner  is  so  changed  !  " 

The  trembling  was  now  quite  beyond  her  control.  Softly 
withdrawing  her  hand,  and  laying  it  in  her  other  hand,  she 


384  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

sat  before  liim  with  her  head  bent  and  her  whole  form 
trembling. 

"  My  own  Little  Dorrit,"  said  Clennam,  compassionately. 

She  burst  into  tears.  Maggy  looked  round  of  a  sudden 
and  stared  for  at  least  a  minute;  but  did  not  interpose. 
Clennam  waited  some  little  while  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  can  not  bear,"  he  said,  ^'to  see  you  weep;  but  I  hope 
this  is  a  relief  to  an  overcharged  heart." 

^*  Yes,  it  is,  sir.     Nothing  but  that." 

"  Well,  well !  I  feared  you  would  think  too  much  of  what 
passed  here  just  now.  It  is  of  no  moment;  not  the  least.  I 
am  only  unfortunate  to  have  come  in  the  way.  Let  it  go  by 
with  these  tears.  It  is  not  worth  one  of  them.  One  of  them  ? 
Such  an  idle  thing  should  be  repeated,  with  my  glad  consent 
fifty  times  a  day,  to  save  you  a  moment's  heart-ache,  Little 
Dorrit." 

She  had  taken  courage  now,  and  answered,  far  more  in 
her  usual  manner,  ^*  You  are  so  good  !  But  even  if  there  was 
nothing  else  in  it  to  be  sorry  for  and  ashamed  of,  it  is  such 
a  bad  return  to  you — " 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Clennam,  smiling  and  touching  her  lips 
with  his  hand.  "  Forgetfulness  in  you,  who  remember  so 
many  and  so  much,  would  be  new  indeed.  Shall  I  remind 
you  that  I  am  not,  and  that  I  never  was,  any  thing  but  the 
friend  whom  you  agreed  to  trust  ?  No.  You  remember  it, 
don't  you  ?" 

^'I  try  to  do  so,  or  I  should  have  broken  the  promise  just 
now,  when  my  mistaken  brother  was  here.  You  will  consider 
his  bringing-up  in  this  place,  and  will  not  judge  him  hardly, 
poor  fellow,  I  know  !  "  In  raising  her  eyes  with  these  words 
she  observed  his  face  more  nearly  than  she  had  done  yet, 
and  said,  with  a  quick  change  of  tone,  ^*  You  have  not  been 
ill,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  " 

''  No." 

**  Nor  tried  ?     Nor  hurt  ?"  she  asked  him,  anxiously. 

It  fell  to  Clennam,  now,  to  be  not  quite  certain  how  to 
answer.     He  said  in  reply: 

*^  To  speak  the  truth,  I  have  been  a  little  troubled,  but  it 
is  over.  Do  I  show  it  so  plainly  ?  I  ought  to  have 
more  fortitude  and  self-command  than  that.  I  thought  I 
had.  I  must  learn  them  of  you.  Who  could  teach  me 
better  ! " 

He  never  thought  that  she  saw  in  him  what  no  one  else 
could  see.     He  never  thought  that  in  the  whole  world  there 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  385 

were  no  other  eyes  that  looked  upon  him  with  the  same  light 
and  strength  as  hers. 

'*  But,  it  brings  me  to  something  that  I  wish  to  say,"  he 
continued,  "  and  therefore  I  will  not  quarrel  even  with  my 
own  face  for  telling  tales  and  being  unfaithful  to  me. 
Besides,  it  is  a  privilege  and  pleasure  to  confide  in  my  Little 
Dorrit.  Let  me  confess  then,  that,  forgetting  how  grave 
I  was,  and  how  old  1  was,  and  how  the  time  for  such  things 
had  gone  by  me  with  the  many  years  of  sameness  and  little 
happiness  that  made  up  my  long  life  far  away,  with- 
out marking  it — that,  forgetting  all  this,  I  fancied  I  loved 
some  one." 

"  Do  I  know  her,  sir  ?  "  asked  Little  Dorrit. 

"  No,  my  child." 

"  Not  the  lady  who  has  been  kind  to  me  for  your  sake  ?  " 

"  Flora.     No,  no.     Did  you  think — " 

"  I  never  quite  thought  so,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  more  to 
herself  than  him.     "  I  did  wonder  at  it  a  little." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Clennam,  abiding  by  the  feeling  that  had 
fallen  on  him  in  the  avenue  on  the  night  of  the  roses,  the 
feeling  that  he  was  an  older  man,  who  had  done  with  that 
tender  part  of  life,  ''  I  found  out  my  mistake,  and  I  thouglit 
about  it  a  little — in  short,  a  good  deal — and  got  wiser.  Being 
wiser,  I  counted  up  my  years,  and  considered  what  I  am, 
and  looked  back  and  looked  forward,  and  found  that  I  should 
soon  be  gay.  I  found  that  I  had  climbed  the  hill,  and 
passed  the  level  ground  upon  the  top,  and  was  descending 
quickly." 

If  he  had  known  the  sharpness  of  the  pain  he  caused  the 
patient  heart,  in  speaking  thus  !  While  doing  it,  too,  with 
the  purpose  of  easing  and  serving  her. 

"  I  found  that  the  day  when  any  such  thing  would  have 
been  graceful  in  me,  or  good  in  me,  or  hopeful  or  happy  for 
me,  or  any  one  in  connection  with  me,  was  gone,  and  would 
never  shine  again." 

Oh  !  If  he  had  known,  if  he  had  known  !  If  he  could 
have  seen  the  dagger  in  his  hand,  and  the  cruel  wounds  it 
struck  in  the  faithful  bleeding  breast  of  his  Little  Dorrit  ! 

"All  that  is  over,  and  I  have  turned  my  face  from  it. 
Why  do  I  speak  of  this  to  Little  Dorrit  ?  Why  do  I  show 
you,  my  child,  the  space  of  years  that  there  is  between  us, 
and  recall  to  you  that  I  have  passed,  by  the  amount  of  your 
whole  life,  the  time  that  is  present  to  you  ?  " 

*'  Because  you  trust  me,  I  hope.     Because  you  know  that 


^S6  LITTLE    DORRIT. 

nothing  can  touch  you,  without  touching  me  ;  that  nothing 
can  make  you  happy  or  unhappy,  but  it  must  make  me,  who 
am  so  grateful  to  you,  the  same.'* 

He  heard  the  thrill  in  her  voice,  he  saw  her  earnest  face, 
he  saw  her  clear  true  eyes,  he  saw  the  quickened  bosom  that 
would  have  joyfully  thrown  itself  before  him  to  receive  a 
mortal  wound  directed  at  his  breast,  with  the  dying  cry,  ''  I 
love  him  !  "  and  the  remotest  suspicion  of  the  truth  never 
dawned  upon  his  mind.  No.  He  saw  the  devoted  little 
creature  with  her  worn  shoes,  in  her  common  dress,  in  her 
jail-home  ;  a  slender  child  in  body,  a  strong  heroine  in  soul  ; 
and  the  light  of  her  domestic  story  made  all  else  dark  to 
him. 

''  For  those  reasons  assuredly,  Little  Dorrit,  but  for  an- 
other too.  So  far  removed,  so  different,  and  so  much  older, 
I  am  the  better  fitted  for  your  friend  and  adviser.  1  mean, 
I  am  the  more  easily  to  be  trusted  ;  and  any  little  constraint 
that  you  might  feel  with  another,  may  vanish  before  me 
Why  have  you  kept  so  retired  from  me  ?     Tell  me." 

"  I  am  better  here.  My  place  and  use  are  here.  I  am 
much  better  here,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  faintly. 

**  So  you  said  that  day,  upon  the  bridge.  I  thought  of  it 
much  afterward.  Have  you  no  secret  you  could  intrust  to 
me,  with  hope  and  comfort,  if  you  w^ould  !  " 

"  Secret  ?  No,  I  have  no  secret,"  said  Little  Dorrit  in 
some  trouble. 

They  had  been  speaking  in  low  voices  ;  more  because  it 
was  natural  to  what  they  said,  to  adopt  that  tone,  than  with 
any  care  to  reserve  it  from  Maggy  at  her  work.  All  of  a 
sudden  Maggy  stared  again,  and  this  time  spoke  : 

**I  say  !  little  mother." 

"Yes,  Maggy." 

"  If  you  ain't  got  no  secret  of  your  own  to  tell  him,  tell 
him  that  about  the  princess.     S/ie  had  a  secret,  you  know." 

"  The  princess  had  a  secret  ?  "  said  Clennam,  in  some 
surprise.     "  What  princess  was  that,  Maggy  ?  " 

"  Lor  !  How  you  do  go  and  bother  a  gal  of  ten,"  said 
Maggy,  *'  catching  the  poor  thing  up  in  that  way.  Who  ever 
said  the  princess  had  a  secret  ?    /  never  said  so." 

''  I  beg  your  pardon.     I  thought  you  did." 

"  No,  I  didn't.  How  could  I,  when  it  was  her  as  wanted 
to  find  it  out  !  It  was  the  little  woman  as  had  the  secret, 
and  she  was  always  a  spinning  at  her  wheel.  And  so,  she 
says  to  her,  why  do  you  keep  it  there  ?     And  so,  the  t'other 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  387 

one  says  to  her,  no,  I  don't  ;  and  so  the  t'other  one  says  to 
her,  yes,  you  do  ;  and  then  they  both  goes  to  the  cupboard, 
and  there  it  is.  And  she  wouldn't  go  into  the  hospital,  and 
so  she  died.  You  know,  little  mother  ;  tell  him  that.  For 
it  was  a  regular  good  secret,  that  was  !  "  cried  Maggy,  hug- 
ging herself. 

Arthur  looked  at  little  Dorrit  for  help  to  comprehend  this, 
and  was  struck  by  seeing  her  so  timid  and  red.  But,  when 
she  told  him  that  it  was  only  a  fairy  tale  she  had  one  day 
made  up  for  Maggy,  and  that  there  was  nothing  in  it  which 
she  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  tell  again  to  any  body  else,  even 
if  she  could  remember  it,  he  left  the  subject  where  it  was. 

However,  he  returned  to  his  own  subject,  by  first  entreat- 
ing her  to  see  him  oftener,  and  to  remember  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  have  a  stronger  interest  in  her  welfare  than  he 
had,  or  to  be  more  set  upon  promoting  it  than  he  was.  When 
she  answered  fervently,  she  well  knew  that  she  never  forgot 
it,  he  touched  upon  his  second  and  more  delicate  point — 
the  suspicion  he  had  formed. 

'*  Little  Dorrit,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  again,  and  speak- 
ing lower  than  he  had  spoken  yet,  so  that  even  Maggy  in  the 
small  room  could  not  hear  him,  **  another  word.  I  have 
wanted  very  much  to  say  this  to  you  ;  I  have  tried  for  oppor- 
tunities. Don't  mind  me,  who,  for  the  matter  of  years, 
might  be  your  father  or  your  uncle.  Always  think  of  me  as 
quite  an  old  man.  I  know  that  all  your  devotion  centers  in 
this  room,  and  that  nothing  to  the  last  will  ever  tempt  you 
away  from  the  duties  you  discharge  here.  If  I  were  not  sure 
of  it,  I  should,  before  now,  have  implored  you,  and  implored 
your  father,  to  let  me  make  some  provision  for  you  in  a  more 
suitable  place.  But,  you  may  have  an  interest — I  will  not 
say,  now,  though  even  that  might  be — may  have,  at  another 
time,  an  interest  in  some  one  else  ;  an  interest  not  incom- 
patible with  your  affection  here." 

She  was  very,  very  pale,  and  silently  shook  her  head. 

"  It  may  be,  dear  Little  Dorrit." 

"  No.  No.  No."  She  shook  her  head,  after  each  slow 
repetition  of  the  word,  with  an  air  of  quiet  desolation  that 
he  remembered  long  afterward.  The  time  came  when  he 
remembered  it  well  long  afterward,  within  those  prison  walls  ; 
within  that  very  room. 

"  But,  if  it  ever  should  be,  tell  me  so,  my  dear  child. 
Intrust  the  truth  to  me,  point  out  the  object  of  such  an  in- 
terest, to  me,  and  I  will  try  with  all  the  zeal  and  honor  and 


388  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

friendship  and  respect  that  I  feel  for  you,  good  Little  Dorrit 
of  my  heart,  to  do  you  a  lasting  service." 

"  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you  !  But,  Oh  no.  Oh  no.  Oh 
no  !  "  She  said  this,  looking  at  him  with  her  work-worn 
hands  folded  together,  and  the  same  resigned  accents  as 
before. 

"  I  press  for  no  confidence  now.  I  only  ask  you  to  repose 
unhesitating  trust  in  me." 

"  Can  I  do  less  than  that,  when  you  are  so  good  !  " 

"  Then  you  will  trust  me  fully  ?  Will  have  no  secret  un- 
happiness,  or  anxiety,  concealed  from  me  ? " 

*^  Almost  none." 

"  And  you  have  none  now  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head.     But  she  was  very  pale. 

**  When  I  lie  down  to-night,  and  my  thoughts  come  back 
— as  they  will,  for  they  do  every  night,  even  when  I  have  not 
seen  you — to  this  sad  place,  I  may  believe  that  there  is  no 
grief  beyond  this  room,  now,  and  its  usual  occupants,  which 
preys  on  Little  Dorrit's  mind  ? " 

She  seemed  to  catch  at  these  words — that  he  remembered, 
too,  long  afterward — and  said,  more  brightly,  '*  Yes,  Mr. 
Clennam  ;  yes,  you  may  !  " 

The  crazy  staircase,  usually  not  slow  to  give  notice  when 
any  one  was  coming  up  or  down,  here  creaked  under  a  quick 
tread,  and  a  further  sound  was  heard  upon  it,  as  if  a  little 
steam-engine  with  more  steam  than  it  knew  what  to  do  with, 
were  working  toward  the  room.  As  it  approached,  which  it 
did  very  rapidly,  it  labored  with  increased  energy  ;  and  after 
knocking  at  the  door,  it  sounded  as  if  it  were  stooping  down 
and  snorting  in  at  the  keyhole. 

Before  Maggy  could  open  the  door,  Mr.  Pancks,  opening 
it  from  without,  stood  without  a  hat  and  with  his  bare  head 
in  the  wildest  condition,  looking  at  Clennam  and  Little 
Dorrit,  over  her  shoulder.  He  had  a  lighted  cigar  in  his 
hand,  and  brought  with  ^him  airs  of  ale  and  tobacco  smoke. 

"  Pancks  the  gipsy,"  he  observed,  out  of  breath,  "fortune- 
telling." 

He  stood  dingily  smiling,  and  breathing  hard  at  them, 
with  a  most  curious  air.  As  if,  instead  of  being  his  proprie- 
tor's grubber,  he  were  the  triumphant  proprietor  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea,  the  marshal,  all  the  turnkeys,  and  all  the  colle- 
gians. In  his  great  self-satisfaction  he  'put  his  cigar  to  his 
lips  (being  evidently  no  smoker),  and  took  such  a  pull  at  it, 
with  his  right  eye  shut  up  tight  for  the  purpose  that  he 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  389 

underwent  a  convulsion  of  shuddering  and  choking.  But 
even  in  the  midst  of  that  paroxysm,  he  still  essayed  to  repeat 
his  favorite  introduction  of  himself,  ''  Pa-ancks  the  gi-ipsy, 
fortune-telling." 

*'  I  am  spending  the  evening  with  the  rest  of  'em,"  said 
Pancks.  "  I've  been  singing.  I've  been  taking  a  part  in 
white  sand  and  gray  sand.  /  don't  know  any  thing  about  it. 
Never  mind.  I'll  take  any  part  in  anything.  It's  all  the 
same,  if  you're  loud  enough." 

At  first  Clennam  supposed  him  to  be  intoxicated.  But  he 
soon  perceived  that  though  he  might  be  a  little  the  worse 
(or  better)  for  ale,  the  staple  of  his  excitement  was  not 
brewed  from  malt,  or  distilled  from  any  grain  or  berry. 

^' How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Dcrrit  ?  "  said  Pancks.  "I  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind  my  running  round,  and  looking  in  for  a 
moment.  Mr.  Clennam  I  heard  was  here,  from  Mr.  Dorrit. 
How  are  you,  sir?" 

Clennam  thanked  him,  and  said  he  was  glad  to  see  him  so  gay. 

*'  Gay  !  "  said  Pancks.  "  I'm  in  wonderful  feather,  sir.  I 
can't  stop  a  minute,  or  I  shall  be  missed,  and  I  don't  want 
*em  to  miss  me. — Eh,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

He  seemed  to  have  an  insatiate  delight  in  appealing  to  her, 
and  looking  at  her  ;  excitedly  sticking  his  hair  up  at  the 
same  moment,  like  a  dark  species  of  cockatoo. 

"  I  haven't  been  here  half  an  hour.  I  knew  Mr.  Dorrit 
was  in  the  chair,  and  I  said,  *  I'll  go  and  support  him  ! '  I 
ought  to  be  down  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard  by  rights  ;  but  I 
can  worry  them  to-morrow — Eh,  Miss  Dorrit  ? " 

His  little  black  eyes  sparkled  electrically.  His  very  hair 
seemed  to  sparkle  as  he  roughened  it.  He  was  in  that 
highly-charged  state  that  one  might  have  expected  to  draw 
sparks  and  snaps  from  him  by  presenting  a  knuckle  to  any 
part  of  his  figure. 

"Capital  company  here,"  said  Pancks. — "Eh,  Miss 
Dorrit  ? " 

She  was  half  afraid  of  him,  and  irresolute  what  to  say. 
He  laughed,  with  a  nod  toward  Clennam. 

*'  Don't  mind  him,  Miss  Dorrit.  He's  one  of  us.  We 
agreed  that  you  shouldn't  take  on  to  mind  me  before  people, 
but  we  didn't  mean  Mr.  Clennam.  He's  one  of  us.  He's  in 
it.     A'n't  you,  Mr.  Clennam? — Eh,  Miss  Dorrit?" 

The  excitement  of  this  strange  creature  was  fast  commu- 
nicating itself  to  Clennam.  Little  Dorrit  with  amazement, 
saw  this,  and  observed  that  they  exchanged  quick  looks. 


390  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

^*  I  was  making  a  remark,"  said  Pancks,  "but  I  declare  I 
forgot  what  it  was.  Oh,  I  know  !  Capital  cornpany  here. 
I've  been  treating  'em  all  round. — Eh,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

"Very  generous  of  you,"  she  returned,  noticing  another 
of  the  quick  looks  between  the  two. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Pancks.  "  Don't  mention  it.  I'm 
coming  into  my  property,  that's  the  fact.  I  can  afford  to 
be  liberal.  I  think  I'll  give  'em  a  treat  here.  Tables  laid 
in  the  yard.  Bread  in  stacks.  Pipes  in  fagots.  Tobacco 
in  hayloads.  Roast  beef  and  plum-pudding  for  every  one. 
Quart  of  double  stout  a  head.  Pint  of  wine  too,  if  they 
like  it,  and  the  authorities  give  permission. — Eh,  Miss 
Dorrit  .>" 

She  was  thrown  into  such  a  confusion  by  his  manner, 
or  rather  by  Clennam's  growing  understanding  of  his 
manner  (for  she  looked  to  him  after  every  fresh  appeal 
and  cockatoo  demonstration  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Pancks), 
that  she  only  moved  her  lips  in  answer,  without  forming 
any  word. 

"And  oh,  by  the  by!"  said  Pancks,  "you  were  to  live 
to  know  what  was  behind  us  on  that  little  hand  of  yours. 
And  so  you  shall,  you  shall,  my  darling. — Eh,  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

He  had  suddenly  checked  himself.  Where  he  got  all  the 
additional  black  prongs  from,  that  now  flew  up  all  over  his 
head,  like  the  myriads  of  points  that  break  out  in  the  large 
change  of  a  great  firework,  was  a  wonderful  mystery. 

"  But  I  shall  be  missed  ;  "  he  came  back  to  that  ;  "  and  I 
don't  want  'em  to  miss  me.  Mr.  Clennam,  you  and  I  made 
a  bargain.  I  said  you  should  find  me  stick  to  it.  You  shall 
find  me  stick  to  it  now,  sir,  if  you'll  step  out  of  the  room  a 
moment.  Miss  Dorrit,  I  wish  you  good-night.  Miss  Dorrit, 
I  wish  you  good-fortune." 

He  rapidly  shook  her  by  both  hands,  and  puffed  down 
stairs.  Arthur  followed  him  with  such  a  hurried  step,  that 
he  had  very  nearly  tumbled  over  him  on  the  last  landing, 
and  rolled  him  down  into  the  yard. 

"  What  is  it,  for  heaven's  sake ! "  Arthur  demanded, 
when  they  burst  out  there  both  together. 

"  Stop  a  moment,  sir.  Mr.  Rugg.  Let  me  introduce 
him." 

With  those  words  he  presented  another  man  without  a 
hat,  and  also  with  a  cigar,  and  also  surrounded  with  a  halo 
of  ale  and  tobacco  smoke,  which  man,  though  not  so  excited 
ij,^  himself,  was  in  a  state  which  would  have  been   akin  to 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  391 

lunacy  but  for  its  fading  into  sober  method  when  compared 
with  the  rampancy    of  Mr.  Pancks. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  Pancks.  "  Stop  a  mo- 
ment.    Come  to  the  pump." 

They  adjourned  to  the  pump.  Mr.  Pancks,  instantly 
putting  his  head  under  the  spout,  requested  Mr.  Rugg  to 
take  a  good  strong  turn  at  the  handle.  Mr.  Rugg  com- 
plying to  the  letter,  Mr.  Pancks  came  forth  snorting  and 
blowing  to  some  purpose,  and  dried  himself  on  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

'^  I  am  the  clearer  for  that,"  he  gasped  to  Clennam  stand- 
ing astonished.  "  But  upon  my  soul,  to  hear  her  father 
making  speeches  in  that  chair,  knowing  what  we  know,  and 
to  see  her  up  in  that  room  in  that  dress,  knowing  what  we 
know,  is  enough  to — give  me  a  back,  Mr.  Rugg — a  little 
higher,  sir, — that'll  do  !  " 

Then  and  there,  on  that  Marshalsea  pavement,  in  the 
shades  of  evening,  did  Mr.  Pancks,  of  all  mankind,  fly 
over  the  head  and  shoulders  of  Mr.  Rugg,  of  Pentonville, 
General  Agent,  Accountant,  and  Recoverer  of  Debts. 
Alighting  on  his  feet,  he  took  Clennam  by  the  button-hole, 
led  him  behind  the  pump,  and  pantingly  produced  from 
his  pocket  a  bundle  of  papers. 

Mr.  Rugg,  also,  pantingly  produced  from  his  pocket  a 
bundle  of  papers. 

"  Stay  ! /'  said  Clennam,  in  a  whisper.  "  You  have  made 
a  discovery." 

Mr.  Pancks  answered,  with  an  unction  which  there  is  no 
language  to  convey,  ''  We  rather  think  so." 

"  Does  it  implicate  any  one? " 

"  How  implicate,  sir? " 

"  In  any  suppression  or  wrong  dealing  of  any  kind  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"  Thank  God!  "  said  Clennam  to  himself.  "  Now  show 
me." 

"  You  are  to  understand  " — snorted  Pancks,  feverishly  un- 
folding papers,  speaking  in  short  high-pressure  blasts  of  sen- 
tences, ''  Where's  the  pedigree  ?  Where's  schedule  number 
four,  Mr.  Rugg  ?  Oh  !  all  right !  Here  we  are.  You  are  to 
understand  that  we  are  this  day  virtually  complete.  We. 
shan't  be  legally  for  a  day  or  two.  Call  it  at  the  outside  a 
week.  We've  been  at  it,  night  and  day,  for  I  don't  know 
how  long.  Mr.  Rugg,  you  know  how  long  ?  Never  mind. 
Don't  say.     You'll  only  confuse  me.     You  shall  tell  her,  Mr. 


392  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Clennam.  Not  till  we  give  you  leave.  Where's  that  rough 
total,  Mr.  Rugg  ?  Oh  !  Here  we  are  !  There,  sir  !  That's 
what  you'll  have  to  break  to  her.  That  man  is  your  father 
of  the  Marshalsea  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXHL 

MRS.    MERDLE's   complaint. 

Resigning  herself  to  inevitable  fate  by  making  the  best  of 
those  people  the  Miggleses,  and  submitting  her  philosophy  to 
the  draught  upon  it,  of  which  she  had  foreseen  the  likeli- 
hood in  her  interview  with  Arthur,  Mrs.  Gowan  handsomely 
resolved  not  to  oppose  her  son's  marriage.  In  her  progress 
to,  and  happy  arrival  at,  this  resolution,  she  was  possibly  in- 
fluenced, not  only  by  her  maternal  affections,  but  by  three 
politic  considerations. 

Of  these,  the  first  may  have  been,  that  her  son  had  never 
signified  the  smallest  intention  to  ask  her  consent,  or  any 
mistrust  of  his  ability  to  dispense  with  it ;  the  second,  that 
the  pension  bestowed  upon  her  by  a  grateful  country  (and  a 
Barnacle)  would  be  freed  from  many  little  filial  inroads,  when 
her  Henry  should  be  married  to  the  darling  only  child  of  a 
man  in  very  easy  circumstances  ;  the  third,  that  Henry's 
debts  must  clearly  be  paid  down  upon  the  altar-railing  by  his 
father-in-law.  When,  to  these  three-fold  points  of  prudence 
there  is  added  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Gowan  yielded  her  consent 
the  moment  she  knew  of  Mr.  Meagles  having  yielded  his, 
and  that  Mr.  Meagles's  objection  to  the  marriage  had  been 
the  sole  obstacle  in  its  way  all  along,  it  becomes  the  height 
of  probability  that  the  relict  of  the  deceased  commissioner 
of  nothing  particular,  turned  these  ideas  in  her  sagacious 
mind. 

Among  her  connections  and  acquaintances,  however,  she 
maintained  her  individual  dignity,  and  the  dignity  of  the 
blood  of  the  Barnacles,  by  diligently  nursing  the  pretense 
that  it  was  a  most  unfortunate  business  ;  that  she  was  sadly 
cut  up  by  it  ;  that  this  was  a  perfect  fascination  under  which 
Henry  labored  ;  that  she  had  opposed  it  for  a  long  time,  but 
what  could  a  mother  do  ;  and  the  like.  She  had  already 
called  Arthur  Clennam  to  bear  witness  to  this  fable,  as  a 
friend  of  the  Meagles  family  ;  and  she  followed  up  the  mo^ifi 
by  now  impounding  the  family  itself  for  the   same  purpose. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  393 

In  the  first  interview  she  accorded  to  Mr.  Meagles,  she  slided 
herself  into  the  position  of  disconsolately  but  gracefully- 
yielding  to  irresistible  pressure.  With  the  utmost  politeness 
and  good  breeding,  she  feigned  that  it  was  she — not  he — who 
made  the  difficulty,  and  who  at  length  gave  way  ;  and  that 
the  sacrifice  was  hers — not  his.  The  same  feint,  with  the 
same  polite  dexterity,  she  foisted  on  Mrs.  Meagles  as  a  con- 
jurer might  have  forced  a  card  on  that  innocent  lady  ; 
and  when  her  future  daughter-in-law  was  presented  to  her 
by  her  son,  she  said  on  embracing  her,  "  My  dear,  what  have 
you  done  to  Henry  that  has  bewitched  him  so  !  "  at  the 
same  time  allowing  a  few  tears  to  carry  before  them,  in  little 
pills,  the  cosmetic  powder  on  her  nose  ;  as  a  delicate  but 
touching  signal  that  she  suffered  much  inwardly,  for  the 
show  of  composure  with  which  she  bore  her  misfortune. 

Among  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Gowan  (who  piqued  herself  at 
once  on  being  society,  and  on  maintaining  intimate  and  easy 
relations  with  that  power),  Mrs.  Merdle  occupied  a  front 
row.  True,  the  Hampton  Court  Bohemians,  without  excep- 
tion, turned  up  their  noses  at  Merdle  as  an  upstart ;  but  they 
turned  them  down  again,  by  falling  flat  on  their  faces  to  wor- 
ship his  wealth.  In  which  compensating  adjustment  of  their 
noses  they  were  pretty  much  like  treasury,  bar,  and  bishop, 
and  all  the  rest  of  them. 

To  Mrs.  Merdle,  Mrs.  Gowan  repaired  on  a  visit  of  self- 
condolence,  after  having  given  the  gracious  consent  aforesaid. 
She  drove  into  town  for  the  purpose  in  a  one-horse  car- 
riage, irreverently  called,  at  that  period  of  English  history, 
a  pill-box.  It  belonged  to  a  job-master  in  a  small  way,  who 
drove  it  himself,  and  who  jobbed  it  by  the  day,  or  hpur,  to 
most  of  the  old  ladies  in  Hampton  Court  Palace  ;  but  it  was 
a  point  of  ceremony,  in  that  encampment,  that  the  whole 
equipage  should  be  tacitly  regarded  as  the  private  property 
of  the  jobber  for  the  time  being,  and  that  the  job-master 
should  betray  personal  knowledge  of  nobody  but  the  jobber 
in  possession.  So,  the  circumlocution  Barnacles,  who  were 
the  largest  job-masters  in  the  universe,  always  pretended  to 
know  no  other  job  but  the  job  immediately  in  hand. 

Mrs.  Merdle  was  at  home,  and  was  in  her  nest  of  crimson 
and  gold,  with  the  parrot  on  a  neighboring  stem  watching  her 
with  its  head  on  one  side,  as  if  he  took  her  for  another  splen- 
did parrot  of  a  larger  species.  To  whom  entered  Mrs. 
Gowan,  with  her  favorite  green  fan,  which  softened  the  light 
on  the  spots  of  bloom. 


394  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  My  dear  soul,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  tapping  the  back  of 
her  friend's  hand  with  this  fan,  after  a  little  indifferent  con- 
versation, ^'  you  are  my  only  comfort.  That  affair  of  Henry's 
that  I  told  you  of,  is  to  take  place.  Now,  how  does  it  strike 
you  ?  I  am  dying  to  know,  because  you  represent  and  ex- 
press society  so  well." 

Mrs.  Merdle  reviewed  the  bosom  which  society  was  accus- 
tomed to  review  ;  and  having  ascertained  that  show-window 
of  Mr.  Merdle's  and  the  London  jewelers'  to  be  in  good 
order,  replied  : 

"As  to  marriage  on  the  part  of  a  man,  my  dear,  society 
requires  that  he  should  retrieve  his  fortunes  by  marriage. 
Society  requires  that  he  should  gain  by  marriage.  Society 
requires  that  he  should  found  a  handsome  establishment  by 
marriage.  Society  does  not  see,  otherwise,  what  he  has  to 
do  with  marriage.     Bird,  be  quiet." 

For  the  parrot  on  his  cage  above  them,  presiding  over  the 
conference  as  if  he  were  a  judge  (and  indeed  he  looked 
rather  like  one),  had  wound  up  the  exposition  with  a  shriek. 

"  Cases  there  are,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  delicately  crooking 
the  little  finger  of  her  favorite  hand,  and  making  her  remarks 
neater  by  that  neat  action  ;  *^  cases  there  are  where  a  man  is 
not  young  or  elegant,  and  is  rich,  and  has  a  handsome  estab- 
lishment already.  Those  are  of  a  different  kind.  In  such 
cases " 

Mrs.  Merdle  shrugged  her  snowy  shoulders  and  put  her- 
hand  upon  the  jewel-stand,  checking  a  little  cough,  as  though 
to  add,  ''  why  a  man  looks  out  for  this  sort  of  thing,  my 
dear."  Then  the  parrot  shrieked  again,  and  she  put  up  her 
glass  to  look  at  him,  and  said,  "  Bird!     Do  be  quiet!  " 

"  But,  young  men,"  resumed  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  and  by  young 
men  you  know  what  I  mean,  my  love — I  mean  people's  sons 
who  have  the  world  before  them — they  must  place  themselves 
in  a  better  position  toward  society  by  marriage,  or  society 
really  will  not  have  any  patience  with  their  making  fools  of 
themselves.  Dreadfully  worldly  all  this  sounds,"  said  Mrs. 
Merdle,  leaning  back  in  her  nest  and  putting  up  her  glass 
again,  **  does  it  not  ? " 

"  But  it  is  true,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  with  a  highly  moral  air. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  for  a  moment,"  returned 
Mrs.  Merdle  ;  "  because  society  has  made  up  its  mind  on 
the  subject,  and  thqre  is  nothiYig  more  to  be  said.  If  we 
were  in  a  more  primitive  state,  if  we  lived  under  roofs  of 
leaves,  and  kept  cows  and  sheep  and  creatures,  instead  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  395 

banker's  accounts  (which  would  be  delicious  ;  my  dear,  I 
am  pastoral  to  a  degree,  by  nature),  well  and  good.  But  we 
don't  live  under  leaves,  and  keep  cows  and  sheep  and 
creatures.  I  perfectly  exhaust  myself  sometimes,  in  pointing 
out  the  distinction  to  Edward  Sparkler." 

Mrs.  Gowan,  looking  over  her  green  fan  when  this  young 
gentleman's  name  was  mentioned,  replied  as  follows  : 

"  My  love,  you  know  the  wretched  state  of  the  country — 
those  unfortunate  concessions  of  John  Barnacle's  ! — and  you 
therefore  know  the  reasons  for  my  being  as  poor  as  Thing- 
ummy." 

'^A  church-mouse  ? "  Mrs.  Merdle  suggested,  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  other  proverbial  church  person — 
Job,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "Either  will  do.  It  would  be  idle 
to  disguise,  consequently,  that  there  is  a  wide  difference  be- 
tween the  position  of  your  son  and  mine.  I  may  add,  too, 
that  Henry  has  talent — " 

"  Which  Edmund  certainly  has  not,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle, 
with  the  greatest  suavity. 

" —  and  that  his  talent,  combined  with  disappointment," 
Mrs.  Gowan  went  on,  "  has  led  him  into  a  pursuit  which — ah 
dear  me  !  You  know,  my  dear.  Such  being  Henry's  different 
position,  the  question  is,  what  is  the  most  inferior  class  of 
marriage  to  which  I  can  reconcile  myself  ? " 

Mrs.  Merdle  was  so  much  engaged  with  the  contemplation 
of  her  arms  (beautifully  formed  arms,  and  the  very  thing  for 
bracelets),  that  she  omitted  to  reply  for  a  while.  Roused  at 
length  by  the  silence,  she  folded  the  arms,  and  with 
admirable  presence  of  mind  looked  her  friend  full  in  the 
face,  and  said  interrogatively,  '^  Ye-es  ?     And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  not  quite  so 
sweetly  as  before,  "  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  what  you  have 
to  say  to  it." 

Here  the  parrot,  who  had  been  standing  on  one  leg  since 
he  screamed  last,  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  bobbed  himself 
derisively  up  and  down  on  both  legs,  and  finished  by  stand- 
ing on  one  leg  again,  and  pausing  for  a  reply,  with  his  head 
as  much  awry  as  he  could  possibly  twist  it. 

"  Sounds  mercenary,  to  ask  what  the  gentleman  is  to  get 
with  the  lady,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle  ;  "  but  society  is  perhaps  a 
little  mercenary,  you  know,  my  dear." 

'*  From  what  I  can  make  out,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  "  I  believe 
I  may  say  that  Henry  will  be  relieved  from  debt " 


396  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*^  Much  in  debt  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Merdle  through  her  eye- 
glass. 

^^  Why  tolerably,  I  should  think,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan. 

"  Meaning  the  usual  thing  ;  I  understand  ;  just  so,"  Mrs. 
Merdle  observed  in  a  comfortable  sort  of  way. 

^*  And  that  the  father  will  make  them  an  allowance  of 
three  hundred  a  year,  or  perhaps  altogether  something  more. 
Which,  in  Italy " 

'*  Oh  ^     Going  to  Italy  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

"For  Henry  to  study.  You  need  be  at  no  loss  to  guess 
why,  my  dear.     That  dreadful  art " 

True.  Mrs.  Merdle  hastened  to  spare  the  feelings  of  her 
afflicted  friend.     She  understood.     Say  no  more  ! 

^*And  that,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  shaking  her  despondent 
head,  '^  that's  all.  That,"  repeated  Mrs.  Gowan,  furling  her 
green  fan  for  the  moment,  and  tapping  her  chin  with  it  (it 
was  on  the  way  to  being  a  double  chin  ;  might  be  called  a 
chin  and  a  half  at  present),  "  that's  all!  On  the  death  of  the 
old  people,  I  suppose  there  will  be  more  to  come  ;  but  how 
it  may  be  restricted  or  locked  up,  I  don't  know.  And  as  to 
that,  they  may  live  forever.  My  dear,  they  are  just  the 
kind  of  people  to  do  it." 

Now  Mrs.  Merdle,  who  really  knew  her  friend  society 
pretty  well,  and  who  knew  what  society*s  mothers  were  and 
what  society's  daughters  were,  and  what  society's  matrimo- 
nial market  was,  and  how  prices  ruled  in  it,  and  what 
scheming  and  counter-scheming  took  place  for  the  high 
buyers,  and  what  bargaining  and  huckstering  went  on,  thought 
in  the  depths  of  her  capacious  bosom  that  this  was  a  suffi- 
ciently good  catch.  Knowing,  however,  what  was  expected 
of  her,  and  perceiving  the  exact  nature  of  the  fiction  to  be 
nursed,  she  took  it  delicately  in  her  arms,  and  put  her 
required  contribution  of  gloss  upon  it. 

"  And  that  is  all,  my  dear  ?  "  said  she,  heaving  a  friendly 
sigh.  "  Well,  well  !  The  fault  is  not  yours.  You  have 
nothing  to  reproach  yourself  with.  You  must  exercise  the 
strength  of  mind  for  which  you  are  renowned,  and  make 
the  best  of  it." 

"The  girl's  family  have  made,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  "  of 
course,  the  most  strenuous  endeavors  to — as  the  lawyers  say 
— to  have  and  to  hold  Henry." 

"  Of  course  they  have,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

**  I  have  persisted  in  every  possible  objection,   and   have 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  397 

worried  myself  morning,  noon,  and  night,  for  means  to 
detach  Henry  from  the  connection." 

"  No  doubt  you  have,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

"  And  all  of  no  use.  All  has  broken  down  beneath  me. 
Now  tell  me,  my  love.  Am  I  justified  in  at  last  yielding  my 
most  reluctant  consent  to  Henry's  marrying  among  people 
not  in  society  ;  or,  have  I  acted  with  inexcusable  weak- 
ness ? " 

In  answer  to  this  direct  appeal,  Mrs.  Merdle  assured  Mrs. 
Gowan  (speaking  as  a  priestess  of  society)  that  she  was 
highly  to  be  commended,  that  she  was  much  to  be  sympa- 
thized with,  that  she  had  taken  the  highest  of  parts,  and  had 
come  out  of  the  furnace  refined.  And  Mrs.  Gowan,  who  of 
course  saw  through  her  own  threadbare  blind  perfectly, 
and  who  knew  that  Mrs.  Merdle  saw  through  it  perfectly, 
and  who  knew  that  society  would  see  through  it  perfectly, 
came  out  of  this  form,  notwithstanding,  as  she  had  gone 
into  it,  with  immense  complacency  and  gravity. 

The  conference  was  held  at  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, when  all  the  region  of  Harley^  Street,  Cavendish 
Square,  was  resonant  of  carriage-wheels  and  double  knocks. 
It  had  reached  this  point  when  Mr.  Merdle  came  home  from 
his  daily  occupation  of  causing  the  British  name  to  be  more 
and  more  respected  in  all  parts  of  the  civilized  globe,  capable 
of  the  appreciation  of  world-wide  commercial  enterprise  and 
gigantic  combinations  of  skill  and  capital.  For,  though  nobody 
knew  with  the  least  precision  what  Mr.  Merdle's  business 
was,  except  that  it  was  to  coin  money,  these  were  the  terms 
in  which  every  body  defined  it  on  all  ceremonious  occasions, 
and  which  it  was  the  last  new  polite  reading  of  the  parable 
of  the  camel  and  the  needle's  eye  to  accept  without  inquiry. 

For  a  gentleman  who  had  this  splendid  work  cut  out  for 
him,  Mr.  Merdle  looked  a  little  common,  and  rather  as  if,  in 
the  course  of  his  vast  transactions,  he  had  accidentally  made 
an  interchange  of  heads  with  some  inferior  spirit.  He  pre- 
sented himself  before  the  two  ladies,  in  the  course  of  a  dis- 
mal stroll  through  his  mansion,  which  had  no  apparent 
object  but  escape  from  the  presence  of  the  chief  butler. 

*^  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  stopping  short  in  confusion  ; 
*'  I  didn't  know  there  was  any  body  here  but  the  parrot." 

However,  as  Mrs.  Merdle  said,  ^*  You  can  come  in  !  "  and 
as  Mrs.  Gowan  said  she  was  just  going,  and  had  already 
risen  to  take  her  leave,  he  came  in,  and  stood  looking  out  at 
a  distant  window,  with  his  hands  crossed  under  his  uneasy 


398  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

coat-cuffs,  clasping  his  wrists  as  if  he  were  taking  himself 
into  custody.  In  this  attitude  he  fell  directly  into  a  reverie, 
from  which  he  was  only  aroused  by  his  wife's  calling  to  him 
from  her  ottoman,  when  they  had  been  for  some  quarter-of- 
an-hour  alone. 

"Eh?  Yes?"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  turning  toward  her. 
"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Merdle.  "  It  is,  I  suppose, 
that  you  have  not  heard  a  word  of  my  complaint." 

"  Your  complaint,  Mrs.  Merdle  ?  "  said  Mr.  Merdle.  "  I 
didn't  know  that  you  were  suffering  from  a  complaint. 
What  complaint  ? " 

"  A  complaint  of  you,"  said   Mrs.  Merdle. 

''  Oh  !  a  complaint  of  me,"said  Mr.  Merdle.  ''  What  is  the 
— what  have  I — what  may  you  have  to  complain  of  in  me, 
Mrs.  Merdle  ?  " 

In  his  withdrawing,  abstracted,  pondering  way,  it  took 
him  sometime  to  shape  this  question.  As  a  kind  of  faint 
attempt  to  convince  himself  that  he  was  the  master  of  the 
house,  he  concluded  by  presenting  his  forefinger  to  the 
parrot,  who  expressed  his  opinion  on  that  subject  by 
instantly  driving  his  bill  into  it. 

"  You  were  saying,  Mrs.  Merdle,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  with 
his  wounded  finger  in  his  mouth,  "  that  you  had  a  complaint 
against  me  ?  " 

"A  complaint  which  I  could  scarcely  show  the  justice  of 
more  emphatically,  than  by  having  to  repeat  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Merdle.  *^  I  might  as  well  have  stated  it  to  the  wall.  I  had 
far  better  had  stated  it  to  the  bird.  He  would  at  least  have 
screamed." 

"  You  don't  want  me  to  scream,  Mrs.  Merdle,  I  suppose," 
said  Mr.  Merdle,  taking  a  chair. 

"Indeed  I  don't  know,"  retorted  Mrs.  Merdle,  "but  that 
you  had  better  do  that,  than  be  so  moody  and  distraught. 
One  would  at  least  know  that  you  were  sensible  of  what  was 
going  on  around  you." 

"  A  man  might  scream,  and  yet  not  be  that,  Mrs.  Merdle," 
said  Mr.  Merdle,  heavily. 

"  And  might  be  dogged,  as  you  are  at  present,  without 
screaming,"  returned  Mrs.  Merdle.  "That's  very  true.  If 
you  wish  to  know  the  complaint  I  make  against  you,  it  is,  in 
so  many  plain  words,  that  you  really  ought  not  to  go 
into  society,  unless  you  can  accommodate  yourself  to 
society." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  399 

Mr.  Merdle,  so  twisting  his  hands  into  what  hair  he  had 
upon  his  head  that  he  seemed  to  lift  himself  up  by  it  as  he 
started  out  of  his  chair,  cried  : 

"  Why,  in  the  name  of  all  the  infernal  powers,  Mrs.  Mer- 
dle, who  does  more  for  society  than  I  do  ?  Do  you  see  these 
premises,  Mrs.  Merdle  ?  Do  you  see  this  furniture,  Mrs. 
Merdle  ?  Do  you  look  in  the  glass  and  see  yourself,  Mrs. 
Merdle  ?  Do  you  know  the  cost  of  all  this,  and  who  it's  all 
provided  for  ?  And  yet  will  you  tell  me  that  I  oughn't  to 
go  into  society  ?  I,  who  shower  money  upon  it  in  this  way? 
I,  who  might  be  almost  said — to — to — to  harness  myself  to  a 
watering-cart  full  of  money,  and  go  about,  saturating  society, 
every  day  of  my  life  ?  " 

"  Pray  don't  be  violent,  Mr.  Merdle,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

"  Violent  ? "  said  Mr.  Merdle.  "  You  are  enough  to  make 
me  desperate.  You  don't  know  half  what  I  do  to  accom- 
modate society.  You  don't  know  any  thing  of  the  sacrifice  I 
make  for  it." 

"  I  know,"  returned  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  that  you  receive  the 
best  in  the  land.  I  know  that  you  move  in  the  whole  society 
of  the  country.  And  I  believe  I  know  (indeed,  not  to  make 
any  ridiculous  pretense  about  it,  I  know)  I  know  who  sustains 
you  in  it,  Mr.  Merdle." 

"  Mrs.  Merdle,"  retorted  that  gentleman,  wiping  his  dull 
red  and  yellow  face,  "  I  know  that,  as  well  as  you  do.  If  you 
were  not  an  ornament  to  society,  and  if  I  was  not  a  benefac- 
tor to  society,  you  and  I  would  have  never  come  together. 
When  I  say  a  benefactor  to  it,  I  mean  a  person  who  pro- 
vides it  with  all  sorts  of  expensive  things  to  eat  and  drink 
and  look  at.  But,  to  tell  me  that  I  am  not  fit  for  it  after  all 
I  have  done  for  it — after  all  I  have  done  for  it,"  repeated 
Mr.  Merdle,  with  a  wild  emphasis  that  made  his  wife  lift  up 
her  eyelids,  '*  after  all — all  ! — to  tell  me  I  have  no  right  to 
mix  with  it  after  all,  is  a  pretty  reward." 

"I  say,"  answered  Mrs.  Merdle  composedly,  **that  you 
ought  to  make  yourself  fit  for  it  by  being  more  dkgage^  and 
less  preoccupied.  There  is  a  positive  vulgarity  in  carrying 
your  business  affairs  about  with  you  as  you  do." 

**  How  do  I  carry  them  about,  Mrs.  Merdle  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Merdle. 

"  How  do  you  carry  them  about  ? "  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 
"  Look  at  yourself  in  the  glass." 

Mr.  Merdle  involuntarily  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction 
of  the  nearest  mirror,  and  asked,  with  a  slow  determination 


400  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

of  his  turbid  blood  to  his  temples,  whether  a  man  was  to  be 
called  to  account  for  his  digestion  ? 

**  You  have  a  physician,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

**  He  does  me  no  good,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

Mrs.  Merdle  changed  her  ground. 

"Besides,"  said  she,  "your  digestion  is  nonsense.  I 
don't  speak  of  your  digestion,  I  speak  of  your  manner." 

"  Mrs.  Merdle,"  returned  her  husband,  "  I  look  to  you  for 
that.     You  supply  manner,  and  I  supply  money." 

"  I  don't  expect  you,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  reposing  easily, 
among  her  cushions,  "  to  captivate  people.  1  don't  want  you 
to  take  any  trouble  upon  yourself.  Or  to  try  to  be  fascinating. 
I  simply  request  you  to  care  about  nothing — or  seem  to  care 
about  nothing — as  every  body  else  does." 

"  Do  I  ever  say  I  care  about  any  thing  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Merdle. 

"  Say  ?  No  !  Nobody  would  attend  to  you  if  you  did. 
But  you    show  it." 

"  Show  what  ?  What  do  I  show  ? "  demanded  Mr.  Merdle, 
hurriedly. 

"  I  have  already  told  you.  You  show  that  you  carry  your 
business  cares  and  projects  about,  instead  of  leaving  them 
in  the  city,  or  wherever  else  they  belong  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Merdle.  "  Or  seeming  to.  Seeming  would  be  quite  enough; 
I  ask  no  more.  Whereas  you  couldn't  be  more  occupied 
with  your  day's  calculations  and  combinations  than  you 
habitually  show  yourself  to  be,  if  you  were  a  carpenter." 

"  A  carpenter  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Merdle,  checking  some- 
thing like  a  groan.  "  1  shouldn't  so  much  mind  being  a 
carpenter,  Mrs.  Merdle." 

"  And  my  complaint  is,"  pursued  the  lady,  disregarding 
the  low  remark,  "  that  it  is  not  the  tone  of  society,  and  that 
you  ought  to  correct  it,  Mr.  Merdle.  If  you  have  any  doubt 
of  my  judgment,  ask  even  Edmund  Sparkler."  The  door  of 
the  room  had  opened,  and  Mrs.  Merdle  now  surveyed  the 
head  of  her  son  through  her  glass.  "  Edmund,  we  want  you 
here." 

Mr.  Sparkler,  who  had  merely  put  in  his  head  and  looked 
round  the  room  without  entering  (as  if  he  were  searching  the 
house  for  that  young  lady  with  no  nonsense  about  her),  upon 
this  followed  up  his  head  with  his  body,  and  stood  before 
them.  To  whom,  in  a  few  easy  words  adapted  to  his  capa- 
city, Mrs.  Merdle  stated  the  question  at  issue. 

The  young  gentleman,  after  anxiously  feeling  his  shirt- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  401 

collar  as  if  it  were  his  pulse  and  he  were  hypochondriacal, 
observed,  ^^  That  he  had  heard  it  noticed  by  fellers." 

^'  Edmund  Sparkler  has  heard  it  noticed,"  said  Mrs.  Mer- 
dle,  with  languid  triumph.  ^'  Why,  no  doubt  every  body  has 
heard  it  noticed  !  "  Which  in  truth  was  no  unreasonable 
inference;  seeing  that  Mr.  Sparkler  would  probably  be  the 
last  person,  in  any  assemblage  of  the  human  species,  to 
receive  an  impression  from  any  thing  that  passed  in  his 
presence. 

''  And  Edmund  Sparkler  will  tell  you,  I  dare  say,"  said 
Mrs.  Merdle,  waving  her  favorite  hand  toward  her  husband, 
"  how  he  has  heard  it  noticed." 

**  I  couldn't,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  after  feeling  his  pulse  as 
before,  '^  couldn't  undertake  to  say  what  led  to  it — 'cause 
memory  desperate  loose.  But  being  in  company  with  the 
brother  of  a  doosed  fine  gal — well  educated  too — with  no 
biggodd  nonsense  about  her — at  the  period  alluded  to " 

**  There  !  Never  mind  the  sister,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mer- 
dle, a  little  impatiently.     ^^  What  did  the  brother  say  ?  " 

*^  Didn't  say  a  word,  ma'am,"  answered  Mr.  Sparkler. 
"  As  silent  a  feller  as  myself.  Equally  hard  up  for  a  re- 
mark." 

*'  Somebody  said  something,"  returned  Mrs.  Merdle. 
**  Never  mind  who  it  was." 

('*  Assure  you  I  don't  in  the  least,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler.) 

*'  But  tell  us  what  it  was." 

Mr.  Sparkler  referred  to  his  pulse  again,  and  put  himself 
through  some  severe  mental  discipline  before  he  replied  : 

"  Fellers  referring  to  my  governor — expression  not  my 
own — occasionally  compliment  my  governor  in  a  very  hand- 
some way  on  being  immensely  rich  and  knowing — perfect 
phenomenon  of  buyer  and  banker  and  that — but  say  the 
shop  sits  heavily  on  him.  Say  he  carries  the  shop  about, 
on  his  back  rather — like  Jew  clothesmen  with  too  much 
business." 

*'  Which,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  rising,  with  her  floating  dra- 
pery about  her,  "  is  exactly  my  complaint.  Edmund,  give  me 
your  arm  up  stairs." 

Mr.  Merdle,  left  alone  to  meditate  on  a  better  conforma- 
tion of  himself  to  society,  looked  out  of  nine  windows  in 
succession,  and  appeared  to  see  nine  wastes  of  space.  When 
he  had  thus  entertained  himself  he  went  down  stairs,  and 
looked  intently  at  all  the  carpets  on  the  ground-floor;  and 
then  came  up  stairs  again,  and  looked  intently  at  all  the 


402  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

carpets  on  the  first-floor;  as  if  they  were  gloomy  depths,  in 
unison  with  his  oppressed  soul.  Through  all  the  rooms  he 
wandered,  as  he  always  did,  like  the  last  person  on  earth  who 
had  any  business  to  approach  them.  Let  Mrs.  Merdle 
announce,  with  all  her  might,  that  she  was  at  home  ever  so 
many  nights  in  a  season,  she  could  not  announce  more  widely 
and  unmistakably  than  Mr.  Merdle  did  that  he  was  never 
at  home. 

At  last  he  met  the  chief  butler,  the  sight  of  which  splendid 
retainer  always  finished  him.  Extinguished  by  this  great 
creature,  he  sneaked  to  his  dressing-room  and  there  remained 
shut  up  until  he  rode  out  to  dinner,  with  Mrs.  Merdle,  in  her 
own  handsome  chariot.  At  dinner,  he  was  envied  and 
flattered  as  a  being  of  might,  was  treasuried,  barred,  and 
bishoped,  as  much  as  he  would;  and  an  hour  after  midnight 
came  home  alone,  and  being  instantly  put  out  again  in  his 
own  hall,  like  a  rushlight,  by  the  chief  butler,  went  sighing 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A   SHOAL   OF  BARNACLES. 

Mr.  Henry  Gowan  and  the  dog  were  established  fre- 
quenters of  the  cottage,  and  the  day  was  fixed  for  the  wed- 
ding. There  was  to  be  a  convocation  of  Barnacles  on  the 
occasion;  in  order  that  that  very  high  and  very  large  family 
might  shed  as  much  luster  on  the  marriage,  as  so  dim  an 
event  was  capable  of  receiving. 

To  have  got  the  whole  Barnacle  family  together,  would 
have  been  impossible  for  two  reasons.  Firstly,  because  no 
building  could  have  held  all  the  members  and  connections  of 
that  illustrious  house.  Secondly,  because  wherever  there 
was  a  square  yard  of  ground  in  British  occupation  under  the 
sun  or  moon,  with  a  public  post  upon  it,  sticking  to  that  post 
was  a  Barnacle.  No  intrepid  navigator  could  plant  a  flag- 
staff upon  any  spot  of  earth,  and  take  possession  of  it  in  the 
British  name,  but  to  that  spot  of  earth,  so  soon  as  the  dis- 
covery was  known,  the  circumlocution  office  sent  out  a  Bar- 
nacle and  a  dispatch-box.  Thus  the  Barnacles  were  all 
over  the  world,  in  every  direction — dispatch-boxing  the 
compass. 

But,  while  the  so-potent  art  of  Prospero  himself  would 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  -  403 

have  failed  in  summoning  the  Barnacles  from  every  speck  of 
ocean  and  dry  land  on  which  there  was  nothing  (except 
mischief)  to  be  done,  and  any  thing  to  be  pocketed,  it  was 
perfectly  feasible  to  assemble  a  good  many  Barnacles.  This 
Mrs.  Go  wan  applied  herself  to  do;  calling  on  Mr.  Meagles 
frequently,  with  new  additions  to  the  list,  and  holding  con- 
ferences with  that  gentleman  when  he  was  not  engaged  (as 
he  generally  was  at  this  period)  in  examining  and  paying  the 
debts  of  his  future  son-in-law,  in  the  apartment  of  the  seniles 
and  scoop. 

One  marriage  guest  there  was,  in  reference  to  whose  pres- 
ence Mr.  Meagles  felt  a  nearer  interest  and  concern  than  in 
the  attendance  of  the  most  elevated  Barnacle  expected; 
though  he  was  far  from  insensible  of  the  honor  .of  having 
such  company.  This  guest  was  Clennam.  But  Clennam 
had  made  a  promise  he  held  sacred,  among  the  trees  that 
summer  night,  and,  in  the  chivalry  of  his  heart,  regarded  it 
as  binding  him  to  many  implied  obligations.  In  forgetf ulness 
of  himself,  and  delicate  service  to  her  on  all  occasions,  he 
was  never  to  fail;  to  begin  it,  he  answered  Mr.  Meagles 
cheerfully,  ''  I  shall  come,  of  course." 

His  partner,  Daniel  Doyce,  was  something  of  a  stumbling- 
block  in  Mr.  Meagles's  way,  the  worthy  gentleman  being  not 
at  all  clear  in  his  own  anxious  mind  but  that  the  mingling  of 
Daniel  with  official  Barnacleism  might  produce  some  explo- 
sive combination,  even  at  a  marriage  breakfast.  The  national 
offender,  however,  lightened  him  of  his  uneasiness  by  coming 
down  to  Twickenham  to  represent  that  he  begged,  with 
the  freedom  of  an  old  friend,  and  as  a  favor  to  one,  that  he 
might  not  be  invited.  '*  For,"  said  he,  ^'  as  my  business  with 
this  set  of  gentlemen  was  to  do  a  public  duty  and  a  public 
service,  and  as  their  business  with  me  was  to  prevent  it  by 
wearing  my  soul  out,  I  think  we  had  better  not  eat  and  drink 
together  with  a  show  of  being  of  one  mind."  Mr.  Meagles 
was  much  amused  by  his  friend's  oddity  ;  and  patronized 
him  with  a  more  protecting  air  of  allowance  than  usual, 
when  he  rejoined  :  "  Well,  well,  Dan,  you  shall  have  your 
own  crotchety  way." 

To  Mr.  Henry  Gowan,  as  the  time  approached,  Clennam 
tried  to  convey  by  all  quiet  and  unpretending  means,  that  he 
was  frankly  and  disinterestedly  desirous  of  tendering  him 
any  friendship  he  would  accept.  Mr.  Gowan  treated  him  in 
return  with  his  usual  ease,  and  with  his  usual  show  of  confi- 
dence, which  was  no  confidence  at  all. 


404  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

'*  You  see,  Clennam,"  he  happened  to  remark  in  the  course 
of  conversation  one  day,  when  they  were  walking  near  the 
cottage  within  a  week  of  the  marriage,  "  I  am  a  disappointed 
man.     That  you  know  already." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  Clennam,  a  little  embarrassed,  "  I 
scarcely  know  how." 

^'  Why,"  returned  Gowan,  "  I  belong  to  a  clan,  or  a  clique, 
or  a  family,  or  a  connection,  or  whatever  you  like  to  call  it, 
that^might  have  provided  for  me  in  any  one  of  fifty  ways,  and 
that  took  it  into  its  head  not  to  do  it  at  all.  So  here  I  am, 
a  poor  devil  of  an  artist." 

Clennam  was  beginning,   "  But  on  the  other  hand " 

when  Gowan  took  him  up. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  I  have  the  good  fortune  of  being 
beloved  by  a  beautiful  and  charming  girl  whom  I  love  with 
all  my  heart." 

C  Is  there  much  of  it  ?  "  Clennam  thought.  And  as  he 
thought  it,  felt  ashamed  of  him.self.) 

*'  And  of  finding  a  father-in-law  who  is  a  capital  fellow  and 
a  liberal,  good  old  boy.  Still,  I  had  other  prospects  washed 
and  combed  into  my  childish  head  when  it  was  washed  and 
combed  for  me,  and  I  took  them  to  a  public  school  when  I 
washed  and  combed  it  for  myself,  and  I  am  here  without 
them,  and  thus  I  am  a  disappointed  man." 

Clennam  thought  (and  as  he  thought  it,  again  felt  ashamed 
of  himself),  was  this  notion  of  being  disappointed  in  life,  an 
assertion  of  station  which  the  bridegroom  brought  into  the 
family  as  his  property,  having  already  carried  it  detriment- 
ally into  his  pursuit  ?  And  was  it  a  hopeful  or  a  promising 
thing  anywhere  ! 

^*  Not  bitterly  disappointed,  I  think,"  he  said  aloud. 

'*  Hang  it,  no  ;  not  bitterly,"  laughed  Gowan.  ^'  My  peo- 
ple are  not  worth  that — though  they  are  charming  fellows, 
and  I  have  the  greatest  affection  for  them.  Besides,  it's 
pleasant  to  show  them,  that  I  can  do  without  them,  and  that 
they  may  all  go  to  the  devil.  And  besides  again,  most  men 
are  disappointed  in  life,  somehow  or  other,  and  influenced 
by  their  disappointment.  But  it's  a  dear  good  world,  and  I 
love  it  !  " 

^'  It  lies  fair  before  yoTi  now,"  said  Arthur. 

*^  Fair  as  this  summer  river,"  cried  the  other,  with  enthusi- 
asm, "  and,  by  Jove,  I  glow  with  admiration  of  it,  and  with 
ardor  to  run  a  race  in  it.  It's  the  best  of  old  worlds  !  And 
my  calling  !     The  best  of  old  callings,  isn't  it  ?" 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  405 

"  Full  of  interest  and  ambition,  I  conceive,"  said  Clen- 
nam. 

**  And  imposition,"  added  Gowan,  laughing  ;  **  we  won't 
leave  out  the  imposition.  I  hope  I  may  not  break  down  in 
that ;  but  there,  my  being  a  disappointed  man  may  show 
itself.  I  may  not  be  able  to  face  it  out  bravely  enough. 
Between  you  and  me,  I  think  there  is  some  danger 
of  my  being  just  enough  soured  not  to  be  able  to  do 
that." 

"  To  do  what  ?  "  asked  Clennam. 

"To  keep  it  up.  To  help  myself  in  my  turn,  as  the  man 
before  me  helps  hiftiself  in  his,  and  pass  the  bottle  of  smoke. 
To  keep  up  the  pretense  as  to  labor,  and  study,  and  patience, 
and  being  devoted  to  my  art,  and  giving  up  many  solitary 
days  to  it,  and  abandoning  many  pleasures  for  it,  and  living 
in  it,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — in  short,  to  pass  the  bottle  of 
smoke,  according  to  rule." 

"  But  it  is  well  for  a  man  to  respect  his  own  vocation, 
whatever  it  is  ;  and  to  think  himself  bound  to  uphold  it,  and 
to  claim  for  it  the  respect  it  deserves  ;  is  it  not  ? "  Arthur 
reasoned.  "  And  your  vocation,  Gowan,  may  really  demand 
this  suit  and  service.  I  confess  I  should  have  thought  that 
all  art  did." 

"  What  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Clennam  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
other,  stopping  to  look  at  him,  as  if  with  irrepressible  admira- 
tion. "  What  a  capital  fellow  ?  You  have  never  been  dis- 
appointed.    That's  easy  to  see." 

It  would  have  been  so  cruel  if  he  had  meant  it,  that  Clen- 
nam firmly  resolved  to  believe  he  did  not  mean  it.  Gowan, 
without  pausing,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  laugh- 
ingly and  lightly  went  on  : 

**  Clennam,  I  don't  like  to  dispel  your  generous  visions, 
and  I  would  give  any  money  (if  I  had  any)  to  live  in  such  a 
rose-colored  mist.  But  what  I  do  in  my  trade,  I  do  to  sell. 
What  all  we  fellows  do,  we  do  to  sell.  If  we  didn't  want  to 
sell  it  for  the  most  we  can  get  for  it,  we  shouldn't  do  it. 
Being  work,  it  has  to  be  done  ;  but  it's  easily  enough  done. 
All  the  rest  is  hocus-pocus.  Now  here's  one  of  the  advant- 
ages, or  disadvantages,  of  knowing  a  disappointed  man. 
You  hear  the  truth." 

Whatever  he-  had  heard,  and  whether  it  deserved  that 
name  or  another,  it  sank  into  Clennam's  mind.  It  so  took 
root  there,  that  he  began  to  fear  Henry  Gowan  would  always 
be  a  trouble  to  him,  and  that  so   far  he  had  gained  little  or 


4o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

nothing  from  the  dismissal  of  nobody,  with  all  his  inconsis- 
tencies, anxieties,  and  contradictions.  He  found  a  contest 
still  always  going  on  in  his  breast,  between  his  promise  to 
keep  Gowan  in  none  but  good  aspects  before  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Meagles,  and  his  enforced  observation  of  Gowan  in 
aspects  that  had  no  good  in  them.  Nor  could  he  quite  sup- 
port his  own  conscientious  nature  against  misgivings  that  he 
distorted  and  discolored  him,  by  reminding  himself  that  he 
never  sought  those  discoveries,  and  that  he  would  have 
avoided  them  with  willingness  and  great  relief.  For  he 
never  could  forget  what  had  been  ;  and  he  knew  that  he 
had  once  disliked  Gowan,  for  no  better  reason  than  that  he 
had  come  in  his  way. 

Harassed  by  these  thoughts,  he  now  began  to  wish  the 
marriage  over,  Gowan  and  his  young  wife  gone,  and  him- 
self left  to  fulfill  his  promise,  and  discharge  the  generous 
function  he  had  accepted.  This  last  week  was,  in  truth,  an 
uneasy  interval  for  the  whole  house.  Before  Pet,  or  before 
Gowan,  Mr.  Meagles  was  radiant  ;  but  Clennam  had  more 
than  once  found  him  alone,  with  his  view  of  the  scales  and 
scoop  much  blurred,  and  had  often  seen  him  look  after 
the  lovers,  in  the  garden  or  elsewhere  when  he  was  not  seen 
by  them,  with  the  old  clouded  face  on  which  Gowan  had 
fallen  like  a  shadow.  In  the  arrangement  of  the  house  for 
the  great  occasion,  many  little  reminders  of  the  old  travels 
of  the  father  and  mother  and  daughter  had  to  be  disturbed, 
and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  ;  and  sometimes,  in  the  midst 
of  these  mute  witnesses  to  the  life  they  had  had  together, 
even  Pet  herself  would  yield  to  lamenting  and  weeping. 
Mrs.  Meagles,  the  blithest  and  busiest  of  mothers,  went 
about  singing  and  cheering  every  body  ;  but  she,  honest 
soul,  had  her  flights  into  store-rooms,  where  she  would  cry 
until  her  eyes  were  red  and  would  then  come  out,  attribut- 
ing that  appearance  to  pickled  onions  and  pepper,  and  singing 
clearer  than  ever.  Mrs.  Tickit,  finding  no  balsam  for  a 
wounded  mind  in  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine,  suffered 
greatly  from  low  spirits,  and  from  moving  recollections  of 
Minnie's  infancy.  When  the  latter  were  powerful  with  hen 
she  usually  sent  up  secret  messages  importing  that  she  was 
not  in  parlor  condition  as  to  her  attire,  and  that  she  solic- 
ited a  sight  of  "her  child"  in  the  kitchen  ; -there,  she 
would  bless  her  child's  face,  and  bless  her  child's  heart,  and 
hug  her  child,  in  a  medley  of  tears  and  congratulations, 
chopping-boards,  rolling-pins,  and  pie-crust,  with  the  tender- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  407 

ness  of  an  attached  old  servant,  which  is  a  very  pretty  tender- 
ness indeed. 

But  all  days  come  that  are  to  be  ;  and  the  marriage-day 
was  to  be,  and  it  came  ;  and  with  it  came  all  the  Barnacles 
who  were  bidden  to  the  feast. 

There  was  Mr.  Tite  Barjiacle,  from  the  circumlocution 
office,  and  Mews  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  with  the  expen- 
sive Mrs.  Tite  Barnacle,  n^e  Stiltstalking,  who  made  the 
quarter  days  so  long  in  coming,  and  the  three  expensive 
Miss  Tite  Barnacles,  double-loaded  with  accomplishments  and 
ready  to  go  off,  and  yet  not  going  off  with  the  sharpness  of 
flash  and  bang  that  might  have  been  expected,  but  rather 
hanging  fire.  There  was  Barnacle  Junior,  also  from  the 
circumlocution  office,  leaving  the  tonnage  of  the  country, 
which  he  was  somehow  supposed  to  take  under  his  protec- 
tion, to  look  after  itself,  and,  sooth  to  say,  not  at  all  impair- 
ing the  efficiency  of  its  protection  by  leaving  it  alone.  There 
was  the  engaging  young  Barnacle,  deriving  from  the  sprightly 
side  of  the  family,  also  from  the  circumlocution  office,  gayly 
and  agreeably  helping  the  occasion  along,  and  treating  it,  in 
his  sparkling  way,  as  one  of  the  official  forms  and  fees  of 
the  church  department  of  how  not  to  do  it.  There  were 
three  other  young  Barnacles,  from  three  other  offices,  insipid 
to  all  the  senses,  and  terribly  in  want  of  seasoning,  doing 
the  marriage  as  they  would  have  "  done  "  the  Nile,  Old 
Rome,  the  new  singer,  or  Jerusalem. 

But  there  was  greater  game  than  this.  There  was  Lord 
Decimus  Tite  Barnacle  himself,  in  the  odor  of  circumlocution 
— with  the  very  smell  of  dispatch-boxes  upon  him.  Yes,  there 
was  Lord  Decimus  Tite  Barnacle,  who  had  risen  to  official 
heights  on  the  wings  of  one  indignant  idea,  and  that  was,  my 
lords,  that  I  am  yet  to  be  told  that  it  behooves  a  minister  of 
this  free  country  to  set  bounds  to  the  philanthropy,  to  cramp 
the  charity,  to  fetter  the  public  spirit,  to  contract  the  enter- 
prise, to  damp  the  independent  self-reliance,  of  its  people. 
That  was,  in  other  words,  that  this  great  statesman  was  always 
yet  to  be  told  that  it  behooved  the  pilot  of  the  ship  to  do  any 
thing  but  prosper  in  the  private  loaf  and  fish  trade  ashore, 
the  crew  being  able,  by  dint  of  hard  pumping,  to  keep  the 
ship  above  water  without  him.  On  this  sublime  discovery, 
in  the  great  art  how  not  to  do  it.  Lord  Decimus  had  long 
sustained  the  highest  glory  of  the  Barnacle  family  ;  and  let 
any  ill-advised  member  of  either  house  but  try  how  to  do  it, 
by  bringing  in  a  bill  to  do  it,  that  bill  was  as  good  as  dead 


4o8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  buried  when  Lord  Decimus  Tite  Barnacle  rose  up  in  his 
place,  and  solemnly  said,  soaring  into  indignant  majesty  as 
the  circumlocution  cheering  soared  around  him,  that  he  was 
yet  to  be  told,  my  lords,  that  it  behooved  him  as  the  minister 
of  this  free  country,  to  set  bounds  to  the  philanthropy,  to" 
cramp  the  charity,  to  fetter  tl:^^  public  spirit,  to  contract  the 
enterprise,  to  damp  the  independent  self-reliance  of  its  peo- 
ple. The  discovery  of  this  behooving  machine  was  the  dis- 
covery of  the  political  perpetual  motion.  It  never  wore  out, 
though  it  was  always  going  round  and  round  in  all  the  state 
departments. 

And  there,  with  his  noble  friend  and  relative  Lord  Deci- 
mus, was  William.  Barnacle,  who  had  made  the  ever-famous 
coalition  with  Tudor  Stiltstalking,  and  who  always  kept  ready 
his  own  particular  recipe  for  how  not  to  do  it  ;  sometimes 
tapping  the  speaker,  and  drawing  it  fresh  out  of  him,  with  a 
"  First,  I  will  beg  you,  sir,  to  inform  the  house  what  prece- 
dent we  have  for  the  course  into  which  the  honorable  gentle- 
man would  precipitate  us  ;  "  sometimes  asking  the  honora- 
ble gentleman  to  favor  him  with  his  own  version  of  the  prec- 
edent ;  sometimes  telling  the  honorable  gentleman  that  he 
(William  Barnacle)  would  search  for  a  precedent  ;  and  often- 
times crushing  the  honorable  gentleman  flat  on  the  spot,  by 
telling  him  there  was  no  precedent.  But  precedent  and  pre- 
cipitate were,  under  all  circumstances,  the  well-matched  pair 
of  battle-horses  of  this  able  circumlocutionist.  No  matter 
that  the  unhappy  honorable  gentleman  had  been  trying  in 
vain  for  twenty-five  years,  to  precipitate  William  Barnacle 
into  this — William  Barnacle  still  put  it  to  the  house,  and  (at 
second-hand  or  so)  to  the  country,  whether  he  was  to  be  pre- 
cipitated into  this.  No  matter  that  it  was  utterly  irreconcil- 
able with  the  nature  of  things  and  course  of  events,  that  the 
wretched  honorable  gentleman  could  possibly  produce  a  prec- 
edent for  this — William  Barnacle  would  nevertheless  thank 
the  honorable  gentleman,  for  that  ironical  cheer,  and  would 
close  with  him  upon  that  issue,  and  would  tell  him  to  his  teeth 
that  there  was  no  precedent  for  this.  It  might  perhaps  have 
been  objected  that  the  William  Barnacle  wisdom  was  not 
high  wisdom,  or  the  earth  it  bamboozled  would  never  have 
been  made,  or,  if  made  in  a  rash  mistake,  would  have  re- 
mained blank  mud.  But,  precedent  and  precipitate  together 
frightened  all  objection  out  of  most  people. 

And  there,  too,  was  another  Barnacle,  a  lively  one,  who 
had  leaped  through  twenty  places   in  quick  succession,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  409 

was  always  in  two  or  three  at  once,  and  who  was  the  much 
respected  inventor  of  an  art  which  he  pr^jgiticed  with  great 
success  and  admiration  in  all  Barnacle  governments.  This 
was,  when  he  was  asked  a  parliamentary  question  on  any  topic, 
to  return  an  answer  on  any  other.  It  had  done  immense 
service,  and  brought  him  into  high  esteem  with  the  circum- 
locution office. 

And  there,  too,  was  a  sprinkling  of  less  distinguished  par- 
liamentary Barnacles,  who  had  not  as  yet  got  any  thing  snug, 
and  were  going  through  their  probation  to  prove  their  worthi- 
ness. These  Barnacles  perched  upon  staircases  and  hid  in 
passages  waiting  their  orders  to  make  houses  or  not  to  make 
houses,  and  they  did  all  their  hearing,  and  ohing,  and  cheer- 
ing,and  barking  under  directions  from  the  heads  of  the  family; 
and  they  put  dummy  motions  on  the  paper  in  the  way  of  other 
men's  motions;  and  they  stalled  disagreeable  subjects  off  until 
late  in  the  night  and  late  in  the  session,  and  then  with  virtuous 
patriotism  cried  out  that  it  was  too  late  ;  and  they  went  down 
into  the  country,  whenever  they  were  sent,  and  swore  that 
Lord  Decimus  had  revived  trade  from  a  swoon  and  commerce 
from  a  fit,  and  had  doubled  the  harvest  of  corn,  quadrupled  the 
harvest  of  hay,  and  prevented  no  end  of  gold  from  flying  out  of 
the  bank.  Also  these  Barnacles  were  dealt,  by  the  heads  of 
the  family,  like  so  many  cards  below  the  court-cards,  to  public 
meetings  and  dinners  ;  where  they  bore  testimony  to  all  sorts 
of  services  on  the  part  of  their  noble  and  honorable  relatives, 
and  buttered  the  Barnacles  on  all  sorts  of  toasts.  And  they 
stood,  under  similar  orders,  at  all  sorts  of  elections  ;  and  they 
turned  out  of  their  own  seats,  on  the  shortest  notice  and  the 
most  unreasonable  terms,  to  let  in  othefmen;  and  they  fetched 
and  carried,  and  toadied  and  jobbed,  and  corrupted,  and 
ate  heaps  of  dirt,  and  were  indefatigable  in  the  public  serv- 
ice. And  there  was  not  a  list,  in  all  the  circumlocution 
office,  of  places  that  might  fall  vacant  anywhere  within  half 
a  century,  from  a  lord  of  the  treasury  to  a  Chinese  consul, 
and  up  again  to  a  governor-general  of  India,  but,  as 
applicants  for  such  places,  the  names  of  some  or  of 
every  one  of  these  hungry  and  adhesive  Barnacles  were 
down. 

It  was  necessarily  but  a  sprinkling  of  any  class  of  Barna- 
cles that  attended  the  marriage,  for  there  were  not  two  score 
in  all,  and  what  is  that  subtracted  from  legion  !  But  the 
sprinkling  was  a  swarm  in  the  Twickenham  cottage,  and 
filled  it.     A  Barnacle   (assisted  by  a  Barnacle)  married  the 


4IO  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

happy  pair,  and  it  behooved  Lord  Decimus  Tite  Barnacle 
himself  to  conduct  Mrs.  Meagles  to  breakfast. 

The  entertainment  was  not  as  agreeable  and  natural  as  it 
might  have  been.  Mr.  Meagles,  hove  down  by  his  good 
company  while  he  highly  appreciated  it,  was  not  himself. 
Mrs.  Gowan  was  herself,  and  that  did  not  improve  him.  The 
fiction  that  it  was  not  Mr.  Meagles  who  had  stood  in  the 
way,  but  that  it  was  the  family  greatness,  and  that  the  family 
greatness  had  made  a  concession,  and  there  was  now  a  sooth- 
ing unanimity,  pervaded  the  affair,  though  it  was  never 
openly  expressed.  Then  the  Barnacles  felt  that  they  for 
their  parts  would  have  done  with  the  Meagleses,  when  the 
present  patronizing  occasion  was  over  ;  and  the  Meagleses 
felt  the  same  for  their  parts.  Then  Gowan  asserting  his 
rights  as  a  disappointed  man  who  had  his  grudge  against  the 
family,  and  who  perhaps  had  allowed  his  mother  to  have 
them  there,  as  much  in  the  hope  that  it  might  give  them  an- 
noyance as  with  any  other  benevolent  object,  aired  his  pen- 
cil and  his  poverty  ostentatiously  before  them,  and  told 
them  he  hoped  in  time  to  settle  a  crust  of  bread  and  cheese 
on  his  wife,  and  that  he  begged  such  of  them  as  (more 
fortunate  than  himself)  came  in  for  any  good  thing,  and 
could  buy  a  picture  to  please  to  remember  the  poor  painter. 
Then  Lord  Decimus,  who  was  a  wonder  on  his  own  parlia- 
mentary pedestal,  turned  out  to  be  the  windiest  creature 
here  ;  proposing  happiness  to  the  bride  and  bridegroom  in  a 
series  of  platitudes,  that  would  have  made  the  hair  of  any 
sincere  disciple  and  believer  stand  on  end  ;  and  trotting 
with  the  complacency  of  an  idiotic  elephant,  among  howling 
labyrinths  of  sentences  which  he  seemed  to  take  for  high 
roads,  and  never  so  much  as  w^anted  to  get  out  of.  Then 
Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  could  not  but  feel  that  there  was  a  per- 
son in  company,  who  would  have  disturbed  his  life-long 
sitting  to  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  in  full  official  character,  if 
such  disturbance  had  been  possible  ;  while  Barnacle  Junior 
did,  with  indignation,  communicate  to  two  vapid  young  gen- 
tlemen his  relatives,  that  there  was  a  feller  here,  look  here, 
who  had  come  to  our  department  without  an  appointment 
and  said  he  wanted  to  know,  you  know  ;  and  that,  look 
here,  if  he  was  to  break  out  now,  as  he  might  you  know  (for 
you  never  could  tell  what  an  ungentlemanly  radical  of  that 
sort  would  be  up  to  next),  and  was  to  say,  look  here,  that  he 
wanted  to  know  this  moment,  you  know,  that  would  be  jolly; 
wouldn't  it? 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  411 

The  pleasantest  part  of  the  occasion,  by  far,  to  Clennam, 
was  the  painfulest.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles  at  last 
hung  about  Pet,  in  the  room  with  the  two  pictures  (where 
the  company  were  not),  before  going  with  her  to  the  thres- 
hold which  she  could  never  re-cross  to  be  the  old  Pet  and  the 
old  delight,  nothing  could  be  more  natural  and  simple  than 
the  three  were.  Gowan  himself  was  touched,  and  answered 
Mr.  Meagles's  ^^  Oh,  Gowan,  take  care  of  her,  take  care  of 
her  !  "  with  an  earnest  "  Don't  be  so  broken-hearted,  sir. 
By  heaven  I  will  !  " 

And  so,  with  last  sobs  and  last  loving  words,  and  a  last 
look  to  Clennam  of  confidence  in  his  promise.  Pet  fell  back 
in  the  carriage,  and  her  husband  waved  his  hand,  and  they 
were  away  for  Dover.  Though  not  until  the  faithful  Mrs. 
Tickit,  in  her  silk  gown  and  jet  black  curls,  had  rushed  out 
from  some  hiding-place,  and  thrown  both  her  shoes  after  the 
carriage  ;  an  apparition  which  occasioned  great  surprise  to 
the  distinguished  company  at  the  windows. 

The  said  company  being  now  relieved  from  further  attend- 
ance, and  the  chief  Barnacles  being  rather  hurried  (for 
they  had  it  in  hand  just  then  to  send  a  mail  or  two,  which 
was  in  danger  of  going  straight  to  its  destination,  beating 
about  the  seas  like  the  Flying  Dutchman,  and  to  arrange  with 
complexity  for  the  stoppage  of  a  good  deal  of  important 
business  otherwise  in  peril  of  being  done),  went  their  sev- 
eral ways  ;  with  all  affability  conveying  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Meagles,  that  general  assurance  that  what  they  had  been 
doing  there,  they  had  been  doing  at  a  sacrifice  for  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Meagles's  good,  which  they  always  conveyed  to  Mr. 
John  Bull  in  their  official  condescension  to  that  most  un- 
fortunate creature. 

A  miserable  blank  remained  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
hearts  of  the  father  and  mother  and  Clennam.  Mr.  Meagles 
called  only  one  remembrance  to  his  aid,  that  really  did  him 
good. 

"  It's  very  gratifying,  Arthur,"  he  said,  "  after  all,  to  look 
back  upon." 

"  The  past  ?  "  said  Clennam. 

"  Yes — but  I  mean  the  company." 

It  had  made  him  much  more  low  and  unhappy  at  the  time, 
but  nov/  it  really  did  him  good.  ^'It's  very  gratifying,"  he 
said,  often  repeating  the  remark  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 
'^  Such  high  company  !  " 


412  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

CHAPTER   XXXV. 

WHAT  WAS  BEHIND  MR.  PANCKS  ON  LITTLE   DORRIT*S  HAND. 

It  was  at  this  time,  that  Mr.  Pancks,  in  discharge  of  his 
compact  with  Clennam,  revealed  to  him  the  whole  of  his 
gipsy  story,  and  told  him  Little  Dorrit's  fortune.  Her  father 
was  heir-at-law  to  a  great  estate  that  had  long  lain  unknown 
of,  unclaimed,  and  accumulating.  His  right  was  now  clear, 
nothing  interposed  in  his  way,  the  Marshalsea  gates  stood 
open,  the  Marshalsea  walls  were  down,  a  few  flourishes  of 
his  pen,  and  he  was  extremely  rich. 

In  his  tracking  out  of  the  claim  to  its  complete  establish- 
ment, Mr.  Pancks  had  shown  a  sagacity  that  nothing  could 
baffle,  and  a  patience  and  secrecy  that  nothing  could  tire.  "  I 
little  thought,  sir,"  said  Pancks,  **  when  you  and  I  crossed 
Smithfield  that  night,  and  I  told  you  what  sort  of  a  collector 
I  was,  that  this  would  come  of  it.  I  little  thought,  sir,  when 
I  told  you  that  you  were  not  of  the  Clennams  of  Cornwall  that 
I  was  ever  going  to  tell  you  who  were  of  the  Dorrits  of  Dor- 
setshire." He  then  went  on  to  detail  how,  having  that  name 
recorded  in  his  note-book,  he  was  first  attracted  by  the  name 
alone.  How,  having  often  found  two  exactly  similar  names, 
even  belonging  to  the  same  place,  to  involve  no  traceable 
consanguinity,  near  or  distant,  he  did  not  at  first  give  much 
heed  to  this  ;  except  in  the  way  of  speculation  as  to  what  a 
surprising  change  would  be  made  in  the  condition  of  a  little 
seamstress,  if  she  could  be  shown  to  have  any  interest  in  so 
large  a  property.  How  he  rather  supposed  himself  to  have 
pursued  the  idea  into  its  next  degree,  because  there  was 
something  uncommon  in  the  quiet  little  seamstress,  which 
pleased  him  and  provoked  his  curiosity.  How  he  had  felt 
his  way  inch  by  inch,  and  ^'  moled  it  out,  sir"  (that  was  Mr. 
Pancks's  expression),  grain  by  grain.  How  in  the  beginning 
of  the  labor  described  by  this  new  verb,  and  to  ^ender  which 
the  more  expressive  Mr.  Pancks  shut  his  eyes  in  pronouncing 
it  and  shook  his  hair  over  them,  he  had  altered  from  sud- 
den lights  and  hopes  to  sudden  darkness  and  no  hppes,  and 
back  again,  and  back  again.  How  he  had  made  acquaint- 
ances in  the  prison,  expressly  that  he  might  come  and  go 
there  as  all  other  comers  and  goers  did  ;  and  how  his  first 
ray  of  light  was  unconsciously  given  him  by  Mr.  Dorrit  him- 
self, and  by  his  son;  to  both  of  whom  he  easily  became  known; 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  413 

with  both  of  whom  he  talked  much,  casually  ("  but  always 
moleing  you'll  observe,"  said  Mr.  Pancks);  and  from  whom 
he  derived,  without  being  at  all  suspected,  two  or  three  little 
points  of  family  history  which,  as  he  began  to  hold  clews  of 
his  own,  suggested  others.  How  it  had  at  length  become 
plain  to  Mr.  Pancks,  that  he  had  made  a  real  discovery  of  the 
heir-at-law  to  a  great  fortune,  and  that  his  discovery  had  but 
to  be  ripened  to  legal  fullness  and  perfection.  How  he  had, 
thereupon,  sworn  his  landlord,  Mr.  Rugg,  to  secrecy  in  a 
solemn  manner,  and  taken  him  into  moleing  partnership. 
How  they  had  employed  John  Chivery  as  their  sole  clerk  and 
agent,  seeing  to  whom  he  was  devoted.  And  how,  until  the 
present  hour,  when  authorities  mighty  in  the  bank  and  learned 
in  the  law  declared  their  successful  labors  ended,  they  had 
confided  in  no  other  human  being. 

^*  So,  if  the  whole  thing  had  broken  down,  sir,"  concluded 
Pancks,  "  at  the  very  last,  say  the  day  before  the  other  day, 
when  I  showed  you  my  papers  in  the  prison  yard,  or  say  that 
very  day,  nobody  but  ourselves  would  have  been  cruelly  dis- 
appointed, or  a  penny  the  worse." 

Clennam,  who  had  been  almost  incessantly  shaking  hands 
with  him  throughout  the  narrative,  was  reminded  by  this  to 
say,  in  an  amazement  which  even  the  preparation  he  had 
had  for  the  main  disclosure  scarcely  smoothed  down,  "  My 
dear  Mr.  Pancks,  this  must  have  cost  you  a  great  sum  of 
money." 

**  Pretty  well,  sir,"  said  the  triumphant  Pancks.  "  No  trifle, 
though  we  did  it  as  cheap  as  it  could  be  done.  And  the  out- 
lay was  a  difficulty,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  A  difficulty  !"  repeated  Clennam.  "But  the  difficulties 
you  have  so  wonderfully  conquered  in  the  whole  business  1" 
shaking  his  hand  again. 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  I  did  it,"  said  the  delighted  Pancks, 
putting  his  hair  in  a  position  as  elevated  as  himself,  "  First, 
I  spent  all  I  had  of  my  own.     That  wasn't  much." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it,"  said  Clennam  ;  ^*not  that  it  matters 
now,  though.     Then  what  did  you  do  ?" 

"  Then,"  answered  Pancks,  "  I  borrowed  a  sum  of  my  pro- 
prietor." 

*'  Of  Mr.  Casby  ?"  said  Clennam.  "  He's  a  fine  old  fel- 
low." 

"  Noble  old  boy  :  an't  he  ?"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  entering  on 
a  series  of  the  dryest  of  snorts.  "  Generous  old  buck.  Con- 
fiding old  boy.     Philanthropic  old  buck.     Benevolent  old 


^14  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

boy  I     Twenty  per  cent.  I  engaged  to  pay  him,  sir.     But  we 
never  do  business  for  less  at  our  shop." 

-  Arthur  felt   an  awkward  consciousness  of  having,  in  his 
exultant  condition,  been  a  little  premature. 

"  I  said  to  that  boiling-over  old  Christian,"  Mr.  Pancks 
pursued,  appearing  greatly  to  relish  this  descriptive  epithet, 
*'  that  I  had  got  a  little  project  on  hand  ;  a  hopeful  one  ;  I 
told  him  a  hopeful  one  ;  which  wanted  a  certain  small  capi- 
tal I  proposed  to  him  to  lend  me  the  money  on  my 
note.  Which  he  did,  at  twenty  ;  sticking  the  twenty  on  in  a 
business-like  way,  and  putting  it  into  the  note,  to  look  like  a 
part  of  the  principal.  If  I  had  broken  down  after  that,  I 
should  have  been  his  grubber  for  the  next  seven  years  at  half 
wages  and  double  grind.  But  he's  a  perfect  patriarch  ;  and 
it  would  do  a  man  good  to  serve  him  on  such  terms — or  any 
terms." 

Arthur  for  his  life  could  not  have  said  with  confidence 
whether  Pancks  really  thought  so  or  not. 

"  When  that  was  gone,  sir,"  resumed  Pancks,  "  and  it  did 
go,  though  I  dribbled  it  out  like  so  much  blood,  I  had  taken 
Mr.  Rugg  into  the  secret.  I  proposed  to  borrow  of  Mr. 
Rugg  (or  of  Miss  Rugg ;  it's  the  same  thing  ;  she  made  a 
little  money  by  a  speculation  in  the  Common  Pleas  once). 
He  lent  it  at  ten,  and  thought  that  pretty  high.  But  Mr. 
Rugg's  a  red-haired  man,  sir,  and  gets  his  hair  cut.  And  as 
to  the  crown  of  his  hat,  it's  high.  And  as  to  the  brim  of  his 
hat,  it's  narrow.  And  there's  no  more  benevolence  bubbling 
out  of  him^  than  out  of  a  ninepin." 

"  Your  own  recompense  for  all  this,  Mr.  Pancks,"  said 
Clennam,  ^^  ought  to  be  a  large  one."  ^ — 

^' I  don't  mistrust  getting  it,  sir,"  said  Pancks.  "I  have 
made  no  bargain.  I  owed  you  one  on  that  score  ;  now,  I 
have  paid  it.  Money  out  of  pocket  made  good,  time  fairly 
allowed  for,  and  Mr.  Rugg's  bill  settled,  a  thousand  pounds 
would  be  a  fortune  to  me.  That  matter  I  place  in  your 
hands.  I  authorize  you,  now,  to  break  all  this  to  the  family 
in  any  way  you  think  best.  Miss  Amy  Dorrit  will  be  with 
Mrs.  Finching  this  morning.  The  sooner  done  the  better. 
Can't  be  done  too  soon." 

This  conversation  took  place  in  Clennam*s  bedroom,  while 
he  was  yet  in  bed.  For '  Mr.  Pancks  had  knocked  up  the 
house  and  made  his  way  in,  very  early  in  the  morning  ;  and, 
without  once  sitting  down  or  standing  still,  had  delivered 
himself  of  the  whole  of  these  details  (illustrated  with  a  vari- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  415 

ety  of  documents)  at  the  bedside.  He  now  said  he  would 
"  go  and  look  up  Mr.  Rugg,"  from  whom  his  excited  state  of 
mind  appeared  to  require  another  back  ;  and  bundling  up 
his  papers,  and  exchanging  one  more  hearty  shake  of  the 
hand  with  Clennam,  he  went  at  ^ull  speed  down  stairs,  and 
steamed  off. 

Clennam,  of  course,  resolved  to  go  direct  to  Mr.  Casby's. 
He  dressed  and  got  out  so  quickly,  that  he  found  himself  at 
the  corner  of  the  patriarchal  street  nearly  an  hour  before  her 
time  ;  but  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  the  opportunity  of  calm- 
ing himself  with  a  leisurely  walk. 

When  he  returned  to  the  street,  and  had  knocked  at  the 
bright  brass  knocker,  he  was  informed  that  she  had  come, 
and  was  shown  up  stairs  to  Flora's  breakfast-room.  Little 
Dorrit  was  not  there  herself,  but  Flora  was,  and  testified  the 
greatest  amazement  at  seeing  him. 

"  Good  gracious,  Arthur — Doyce  and  Clennam  !"  cried 
that  lady,  *'  who  would  have  ever  thought  of  seeing  such  a 
sight  as  this  and  pray  excuse  a  wrapper  for  upon  my  word  I 
really  never  and  a  faded  check  too  which  is  worse  but  our 
little  friend  is  making  me  a,  not  that  I  need  mind  mentioning 
it  to  you  for  you  must  know  that  there  are  such  things  as  a 
skirt,  and  having  arranged  that  a  trying  on  should  take  place 
after  breakfast  is  the  reason  though  I  wish  not  so  badly 
starched." 

"  I  ought  to  make  an  apology,"  said  Arthur,  "for  so  early 
and  abrupt  a  visit  ;  but  you  will  excuse  it  when  I  tell  you 
the  cause.'* 

'*  In  times  forever  fled  Arthur,"  returned  Mrs.  Finching, 
^*  pray  excuse  me  Doyce  and  Clennam  infinitely  more  correct 
and  though  unquestionably  distant  still  'tis  distance  lends  en- 
chantment to  the  view,  at  least  I  don't  mean  that  and  if  I 
did  I  suppose  it  would  depend  considerably  on  the  nature 
of  the  view,  but  I'm  running  on  again  and  you  put  it  all  out 
of  my  head." 

She  glanced  at  him  tenderly,  and  resumed  : 

"  In  times  forever  fled  I  was  going  to  say  it  would  have 
sounded  strange  indeed  for  Arthur  Clennam — Doyce  and 
Clennam  naturally  quite  different — to  make  apologies  for 
coming  here  at  any  time,  but  that  is  past  and  what  is  past 
can  never  be  recalled  except  in  his  own  case,  as  poor  Mr.  F. 
said  when  he  was  in  spirits  cucumber  and  therefore  never 
ate  it." 

She  was  making  the  tea  when  Arthur  came  in,  and  now 
hastily  finished  that  ooeration. 


4t6  little  DORRIT. 

*'  Papa,"  she  said,  all  mystery  and  whisper,  as  she  shut 
down  the  tea-pot  lid,  ^*  is  sitting  prosingly  breaking  his  new 
laid  egg  in  the  back  parlor  over  the  city  article  exactly  like 
the  Woodpecker  Tapping  and  need  never  know  that  you  are 
here,  and  our  little  friend  you  are  well  aware  may  be  fully 
trusted  when  she  comes  down  from  cutting  out  on  the  large 
table  overhead." 

Arthur  then  told  her,  in  the  fewest  words,  that  it  was  their 
little  friend  he  came  to  see,  and  what  he  had  to  announce  to 
their  little  friend.  At  which  astounding  intelligence,  Flora 
clasped  her  hands,  fell  into  a  tremble,  and  shed  tears  of 
sympathy  and  pleasure,  like  the  good-natured  creature  she 
really  was. 

*'  For  gracious  sake  let  me  get  out  of  the  way  first,"  said 
Flora,  putting  her  hands  to  her  ears,  and  moving  toward 
the  door,  '^  or  I  know  I  shall  go  off  dead  and  screaming  and 
make  every  body  worse,  and  the  dear  little  thing  only  this 
morning  looking  so  nice  and  neat  and  good  and  yet  so  poor 
and  now  a  fortune  is  she  really  and  deserves  it  too  !  and 
might  I  mention  it  to  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  Arthur  not  Doyce  and 
Clennam  for  this  once  or  if  objectionable  not  on  any  ac- 
count ? " 

Arthur  nodded  his  free  permission,  since  Flora  shut  out 
all  verbal  communication.  Flora  nodded  in  return  to  thank 
him  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Little  Dorrit's  step  was  already  on  the  stairs,  and  in 
another  moment  she  was  at  the  door.  Do  what  he  would 
to  compose  his  face,  he  could  not  convey  so  much  of  an 
ordinary  expression  into  it,  but  that  the  moment  she  saw  it 
she  dropped  her  work,  and  cried,  ^*  Mr.  Clennam  !  What's 
the  matter  ?  " 

'*  Nothing,  nothing.  That  is,  no  misfortune  has  happened. 
I  have  came  to  tell  you  something,  but  it  is  a  piece  of  great 
good-fortune." 

''Good-fortune?" 

"  Wonderful  fortune  !  " 

They  stood  in  a  window,  and  her  eyes,  full  of  light,  were 
fixed  upon  his  face.  He  put  an  arm  about  her,  seeing  her 
likely  to  sink  down.  She  put  a  hand  upon  that  arm,  partly 
to  rest  upon  it,  and  partly  so  to  preserve  their  relative  posi- 
tions as  that  her  intent  look  at  him  should  be  shaken  by  no 
change  of  attitude  in  either  of  them.  Her  lips  seemed  to 
repeat  *'  Wonderful  fortune  ?  "    He  repeated  it  again,  aloud. 

"  Dear  Little  Dorrit  1     Your  father." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  417 

The  ice  of  the  pale  face  broke  at  the  word,  and  little 
lights  and  shoots  of  expression  passed  all  over  it.  They 
were  all  expressions  of  pain.  Her  breath  was  faint  and 
hurried.  Her  heart  beat  fast.  He  would  have  clasped  the 
little  figure  closer,  but  he  saw  that  the  eyes  appealed  to  him 
not  to  be  moved. 

*'  Your  father  can  be  free  within  this  week.  He  does  not 
know  it  ;  we  must  go  to  him  from  here,  to  tell  him  of  it. 
Your  father  will  be  free  within  a  few  days.  Your  father  will 
be  free  within  a  few  hours.  Remember  we  must  go  to  him 
from  here,  to  tell  him  of  it  !  " 

That  brought  her  back.  Her  eyes  were  closing,  but  they 
opened  again. 

"  This  is  not  all  the  good-fortune.  This  is  not  all  the 
wonderful  good-fortune,  my  dear  Little  Dorrit.  Shall  I  tell 
you  more  ?  " 

Her  lips  shaped  *'  Yes." 

**  Your  father  will  be  no  beggar  when  he  is  free.  He  will 
want  for  nothing.  Shall  I  tell  you  more  ?  Remember  !  He 
knows  nothing  of  it  ;  we  must  go  to  him  from  here,  to  tell 
him  of  it !  " 

She  seemed  to  entreat  him  for  a  little  time.  He  held  her 
in  his  arm,  and,  after  a  pause,  bent  down  his  ear  to  listen. 

"  Did  you  ask  me  to  go  on  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"He  will  be  a  rich  man.  He  is  a  rich  man.  A  great 
sum  of  money  is  waiting  to  be  paid  over  to  him  as  his  inheri- 
tance ;  you  are  all  henceforth  very  wealthy.  Bravest  and 
best  of  children,  I   thank  heaven  that  you  are  rewarded  !  " 

As  he  kissed  her,  she  turned  h^r  head  toward  his  shoulder, 
and  raised  her  arm  toward  his  neck  ;  cried  out  "  Father  ! 
Father  !     Father  !  "  and  swooned  away. 

Upon  which  Flora  returned  to  take  care  of  her,  and  hov- 
ered about  her  on  a  sofa,  intermingling  kind  offices  and 
incoherent  scraps  of  conversation  in  a  manner  so  confounding, 
that  whether  she  pressed  the  Marshalsea  to  take  a  spoonful 
of  unclaimed  dividends,  for  it  would  do  her  good  ;  or  whether 
she  congratulated  Little  Dorrit's  father  on  coming  into  posses- 
sion of  a  hundred  thousand  smelling-bottles  ;  or  whether  she 
explained  that  she  put  seventy-five  thousand  drops  of  spirits 
of  lavender  on  fifty  thousand  pounds  of  lump  sugar,  and  that 
she  entreated  Little  Dorrit  to  take  that  gentle  restorative  ;  or 
whether  she  bathed  the  foreheads  of  Doyce  and  Clennam  in 
vinegar,  and  gave  the  late  Mr.  F.  more  air  ;  no  one  with  any 


4i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

sense  of  responsibility  could  have  undertaken  to  decide.  A 
tributary  stream  of  confusion,  moreover,  poured  in  from  an 
adjoining  bedroom,  where  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  appeared,  from  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  to  be  in  a  horizontal  posture,  awaiting 
her  breakfast  ;  and  from  which  bower  that  inexorable  lady 
snapped  off  short  taunts,  whenever  she  could  get  a  hearing, 
as,  "  don't  believe  it's  his  doing  !  "  and  "  he  needn't  take  no 
credit  to  himself  for  it !  "  and  "  it'll  be  long  enough,  I  expect, 
afore  he'll  give  up  any  of  his  own  money  !  "  all  designed  to 
disparage  Clennam's  share  in  the  discovery,  and  to  relieve 
those  inveterate  feelings  with  which  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  regarded 
him. 

But  Little  Dorrit's  solicitude  to  get  to  her  father,  and  to 
carry  the  joyful  tidings  to  him,  and  not  to  leave  him  in  his 
jail  a  moment  with  this  happiness  in  store  for  him  and  still 
unknown  to  him,  did  more  for  her  speedy  restoration  than  all 
the  skill  and  attention  on  earth  could  have  done.  "  Come 
with  me  to  my  dear  father.  Pray  come  and  tell  my  dear 
father  !  "  were  the  first  words  she  said.  Her  father,  her 
father.  She  spoke  of  nothing  but  him,  thought  of  nothing 
but  him.  Kneeling  down  and  pouring  out  her  thankfulness 
with  uplifted  hands,  her  thanks  were  for  her  father. 

Flora's  tenderness  was  quite  overcome  by  this,  and  she 
launched  out  among  the  cups  and  saucers  into  a  wonderful 
flow  of  tears  and  speech. 

"  I  declare,"  she  sobbed,  "  I  never  was  so  cut  up  since 
your  mamma  and  my  papa  not  Doyce  and  Clennam  for  this 
once  but  give  the  precious  little  thing  a  cup  of  tea  and  make 
her  put  it  to  her  lips  at  least  pray  Arthur  do,  not  even  Mr. 
F.*s  last  illness  for  that  wasc>f  another  kind  and  gout  is  not  a 
child's  affection  though  very  painful  for  all  parties  and  Mr. 
F.  a  martyr  with  his  leg  upon  a  rest  and  the  wine  trade  in 
itself  inflammatory  for  they  will  do  it  more  or  less  among 
themselves  and  who  can  wonder,  it  seems  like  a  dream  I  am 
sure  to  think  of  nothing  at  all  this  morning  and  now  mines 
of  money  is  it  really,  but  you  must  you  know  my  darling  love 
because  you  never  will  be  strong  enough  to  tell  him  all  about 
it  upon  teaspoons,  mightn't  it  be  even  best  to  try  the  direc- 
tions of  my  own  medical  man  for  though  the  flavor  is  any 
thing  but  agreeable  still  I  force  myself  to  do  it  as  a  prescrip- 
tion and  find  the  benefit,  you'd  rather  not  why  no  my  dear 
I'd  rather  not  but  still  I  do  it  as  a  duty,  every  body  will  con- 
gratulate you  some  in  earnest  and  some  not  and  many  will 
congratulate  you  with  all  their  hearts  but  none  more  so  I  do 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  419 

assure  you  than  from  the  bottom  of  my  own  I  do  myself 
though  sensible  of  blundering  and  being  stupid,  and  will  be 
judged  by  Arthur  not  Doyce  and  Clennam  for  this  once  so 
good-by  darling  and  God  bless  you  and  may  you  be  very 
happy  and  excuse  the  liberty,  vowing  that  the  dress  shall 
never  be  finished  by  any  body  else  but  shall  be  laid  by  for  a 
keepsake  just  as  it  is  and  called  Little  Dorrit  though  why 
that  strangest  of  denominations  at  any  time  I  never  did 
myself  and  now  I  never  shall  ?  " 

Thus  Flora,  in  taking  leave  of  her  favorite.  Little  Dorrit 
thanked  her,  and  embraced  her,  over  and  over  again  ;  and 
finally  came  out  of  the  house  with  Clennam,  and  took  coach 
for  the  Marshalsea. 

It  was  a  strangely  unreal  ride  through  the  old  squalid 
streets,  with  a  sensation  of  being  raised  out  of  them,  into  an 
airy  world  of  wealth  and  grandeur.  When  Arthur  told  her 
that  she  would  soon  ride  in  her  own  carriage  through  very 
different  scenes,  when  all  the  familiar  experiences  would  have 
vanished  away,  she  looked  frightened.  But  when  he  substi- 
tuted her  father  for  herself,  and  told  her  how  he  would  ride 
in  his  carriage,  and  how  great  and  grand  he  would  be,  her 
tears  of  joy  and  innocent  pride  fell  fast.  Seeing  that  the 
happiness  her  mind  could  realize  was  all  shining  upon  him, 
Arthur  kept  that  single  figure  before  her  ;  and  so  they  rode 
brightly  through  the  poor  streets  in  the  prison  neighborhood, 
to  carry  him  the  great  news. 

When  Mr.  Chivery,  who  was  on  duty,  admitted  them  into 
the  lodge,  he  saw  something  in  their  faces  which  filled  him 
with  astonishment.  He  stood  looking  after  them,  when  they 
hurried  into  the  prison,  as  though  he  perceived  that  they  had 
come  back  accompanied  by  a  ghost  a-piece.  Two  or  three  col- 
legians whom  they  passed,  looked  after  them  too,  and  pres- 
ently joining  Mr.  Chivery,  formed  a  little  group  on  the  lodge 
steps,  in  the  midst  of  which  were  spontaneously  originated  a 
whisper  that  the  father  was  going  to  get  his  discharge. 
Within  a  few  minutes  it  was  heard  in  the  remotest  room  in 
the  college. 

Little  Dorrit  opened  the  door  from  without,  and  they  both 
entered.  He  was  sitting  in  his  old  gray  gown,  and  his  old 
black  cap,  in  the  sunlight  by  the  window,  reading  his  news- 
paper. His  glasses  were  in  his  hand,  and  he  had  just  looked 
round  ;  surprised  at  first,  no  doubt,  by  her  step  upon  ihe 
stairs,  not  expecting  her  until  night ;  surprised  again  by 
seeing  Arthur  Clennam  in  her  company.     As  they  came  in, 


4^6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

the  same  unwonted  look  in  both  of  them  which  had  already 
caught  attention  in  the  yard  below,  struck  him.  He  did  not 
rise  or  speak,  but  laid  down  his  glasses  and  newspaper  on  the 
table  beside  him,  and  looked  at  them  with  his  mouth  a  little 
open  and  his  lips  trembling.  When  Arthur  put  out  his  hand, 
he  touched  it,  but  not  with  his  usual  state  ;  and  then  he 
turned  to  his  daughter,  who  had  sat  down  close  beside  him 
with  her  hands  upon  his  shoulder,  and  looked  attentively  in 
her  face, 

"  Father  !  I  have  been  made  so  happy  this  morning  !  '* 

"  You  have  been  made  so  happy,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  By  Mr.  Clennam,  father.  He  brought  me  such  joyful 
and  wonderful  intelligence  about  you  !  If  he  had  not  with 
his  great  kindness  and  gentleness,  prepared  me  for  it,  father 
— prepared  me  for  it,  father— I  think  I  could  not  have  borne 
it." 

Her  agitation  was  exceedingly  great,  and  the  tears  rolled 
down  her  face.  He  put  his  hand  suddenly  to  his  heart,  and 
looked  at  Clennam. 

"  Compose  yourself,  sir,"  said  Clennam,  "and  take  a  little 
time  to  think.  To  think  of  the  brightest  and  most  fortunate 
accidents  of  life.  We  have  all  heard  of  great  surprises  of 
joy.  They  are  not  at  an  end,  sir.  They  are  rare  but  not  at 
an  end." 

.  "  Mr.  Clennam  !  Not  at  an  end  ?  Not  at  an  end  for 
"  He  touched  himself  upon  the  breast,  instead  of  say- 
ing "  me." 

''  No,"  returned  Clennam. 

"  What  surprise,"  he  asked,  keeping  his  left  hand  over  his 
heart,  and  there  stopping  in  his  speech,  while  with  his  right 
hand  he  put  his  glasses  exactly  level  on  the  table  ;  "  what 
such  surprise  can  be  in  store  for  me  ?  " 

"  Let  me  answer  with  another  question.  Tell  me,  Mr. 
Dorrit,  what  surprise  would  be  the  most  unlooked  for  and 
the  most  acceptable  to  you.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  imagine  it, 
or  to  say  what  it  would  be." 

He  looked  steadfastly  at  Clennam,  and,  so  looking  at  him, 
seemed  to  change  into  a  very  old  haggard  man.  The  sun 
was  bright  upon  the  wall  beyond  the  window,  and  on  the 
spikes  at  top.  He  slowly  stretched  out  the  hand  that  had 
been  upon  his  heart,  and  pointed  at  the  wall. 

"  It  is  down,"  said  Clennam.     "  Gone  !  " 

He  remained  in  the  same  attitude,  looking  steadfastly  at 
him. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  421 

"  And  in  its  place,"  said  Clennam,  slowly  and  distinctly, 
"  are  the  means  to  possess  and  enjoy  the  utmost  that  they 
have  so  long  shut  out.  Mr.  Dorrit,  there  is  not  the  smallest 
doubt  that  within  a  few  days  you  will  be  free  and  highly 
prosperous.  I  congratulate  you  with  all  my  soul  on  this 
change  of  fortune,  and  on  the  happy  future  into  which  you 
are  soon  to  carry  the  treasure  you  have  been  blest  with  here 
— the  best  of  all  the  riches  you  can  have  elsewhere — the  treas- 
ure at  your  side." 

With  those  words  he  pressed  his  hand  and  released  it  ; 
and  his  daughter,  laying  her  face  against  his,  encircled  him  in 
the  hour  of  his  prosperity  with  her  arms  as  she  had  in  the 
long  years  of  his  adversity  encircled  him  with  her  love  and 
toil  and  truth  ;  and  poured  out  her  full  heart  in  gratitude, 
joy,  blissful  ecstasy,  and  all  for  him. 

''  I  shall  see  him,  as  I  never  saw  him  yet.  I  shall  see  my 
dear  love  with  the  dark  cloud  cleared  away.  I  shall  see  him 
as  my  poor  mother  saw  him  long  ago.  Oh  my  dear,  my  dear  ! 
Oh  father,  father  !  Oh  thank  God,  thank  God  !  " 

He  yielded  himself  to  her  kisses  and  caresses,  but  did  not 
return  them,  except  that  he  put  an  arm  about  her.  Neither 
did  he  say  one  word.  His  steadfast  look  was  now  divided 
between  her  and  Clennam,  and  he  began  to  shake  as  if  he 
were  very  cold.  Explaining  to  Little  Dorrit  that  he  would 
run  to  the  coffee-house  for  a  bottle  of  wine,  Arthur  fetched 
it  with  all  the  haste  he  could  use.  While  it  was  being 
brought  from  the  cellar  to  the  bar,  a  number  of  excited 
people  asked  him  what  had  happened  ;  when  he  hurriedly 
informed  them,  that  Mr.  Dorrit  had  succeeded  to  a  fortune. 

On  coming  back  with  the  wine  in  his  hand,  he  found  that 
she  had  placed  her  father  in  his  easy  chair,  and  had  loosened 
his  shirt  and  neckcloth.  They  filled  a  tumbler  with  wine, 
and  held  it  to  his  lips.  When  he  had  swallowed  a  little,  he 
took  the  glass  himself  and  emptied  it.  Soon  after  that,  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  cried,  with  his  handkerchief 
before  his  face. 

After  this  had  lasted  a  while,  Clennam  thought  it  a  good 
season  for  diverting  his  attention  from  the  main  surprise,  by 
relating  its  details.  Slowly,  therefore,  and  in  a  quiet  tone 
of  voice,  he  explained  them  as  he  best  could,  and  enlarged 
on  the  nature  of  Pancks's  service. 

"  He  shall  be — ha — he  shall  be  handsomely  recom- 
pensed, sir,"  said  the  father,  starting  up  and  moving  hur- 
riedly about  the  room.     ''Assure  yourself,   Mr.   Clennam, 


42  2  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  every  body  concerned  shall  be — ha — shall  be  nobly 
rewarded.  No  one,  my  dear  sir,  shall  say  that  he  has  an 
unsatisfied  claim  against  me.  I  shall  repay  the — hum — the 
advances  I  have  had  from  you,  sir,  with  peculiar  pleasure. 
I  beg  to  be  informed  at  your  early  convenience,  what  advances 
you  have  made  my  son." 

He  had  no  purpose  in  going  about  the  room,  but  he  was 
not  still  a  moment. 

"  Every  body,"  he  said,  "  shall  be  remembered.  I  will 
not  go  away  from  here  in  any  body's  debt.  All  the  people 
who  have  been — ha — well  behaved  toward  myself  and  my 
family,  shall  be  rewarded.  Chivery  shall  be  rewarded. 
Young  John  shall  be  rewarded.  I  particularly  wish,  and 
intend,  to  act  munificently,  Mr.  Clennam." 

"  Will  you  allow  me,"  said  Arthur,  laying  his  purse  on  the 
table,  "  to  supply  any  present  contingencies,  Mr.  Dorrit  ?  I 
thought  it  best  to  bring  a  sum  of  money  for  the  purpose." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  thank  you.  I  accept  with  readiness  at 
the  present  moment,  what  I  could  not  an  hour  ago  have 
conscientiously  taken.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  tem- 
porary accommodation.  Exceedingly  temporary,  but  well 
timed — well  timed."  His  hand  had  closed  upon  the  money, 
and  he  carried  it  about  with  him.  "  Be  so  kind,  sir,  as  to 
add  the  amount  to  those  former  advances  to  which  I  have 
already  referred  ;  being  careful,  if  you  please,  not  to  omit 
advances  made  to  my  son.  A  mere  verbal  statement  of  the 
gross  amount  is  all  I  shall — ha — all  I  shall  require." 

His  eye  fell  upon  his  daughter  at  this  point,  and  he 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  kiss  her,  and  to  pat  her  head. 

"  It  will  be  necessary  to  find  a  milliner,  my  love,  and  to 
make  a  speedy  and  complete  change  in  your  very  plain 
dress.  Something  must  be  done  with  Maggy  too,  who  at 
present  is — ha — barely  respectable,  barely  respectable.  And 
your  sister.  Amy,  and  your  brother.  And  my  brother,  your 
uncle — poor  soul,  I  trust  this  will  rouse  him — messengers 
must  be  dispatched  to  fetch  them.  They  must  be  informed 
of  this.  We  must  break  it  to  them  cautiously,  but  they 
must  be  informed  directly.  We  owe  it  as  a  duty  to  them, 
and  to  ourselves,  from  this  moment,  not  to  let  them — hum 
— not  to  let  them  do  any  thing." 

This  was  the  first  intimation  he  had  ever  given,  that  he 
was  privy  to  the  fact  that  they  did  something  for  a  liveli- 
hood. 

He  was  still   jogging    about    the    room,    with  the  purse 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  423, 

clutched  in  his  hand,  when  a  great  cheering  arose  in  the 
yard.  "The  news  has  spread  already,"  said  Clennam,  look- 
ing down  from  the  window.  "  Will  you  show  yourself  to 
them,  Mr.  Dorrit  ?  They  are  very  earnest,  and  they  evi- 
dently wish  it." 

"  1 — hum — ha — I  confess  I  could  have  desired,  Amy,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  jogging  about  in  more  feverish  flutter  than 
before,  "  to  have  made  some  change  in  my  dress  first,  and 
to  have  bought  a — hum — a  watch  and  chain.  But  if  it  must 
be  done  as  it  is,  it — ha — it  must  be  done.  Fasten  the  collar 
of  my  shirt,  my  dear.  Mr.  Clennam,  would  you  oblige  me 
— hum — with  a  blue  neckcloth  you  will  find  in  that  drawer 
at  your  elbow.  Button  my  coat  across  at  the  chest,  my  love. 
It  looks — ha — it  looks  broader,  buttoned." 

With  his  trembling  hand  he  pushed  his  gray  hair  up,  and 
then,  taking  Clennam  and  his  daughter  for  supporters, 
appeared  at  the  window  leaning  on  an  arm  of  each.  The 
collegians  cheered  him  very  heartily,  and  he  kissed  his  hand 
to  them  with  great  urbanity  and  protection.  When  he  with- 
drew into  the  room  again,  he  said  "  Poor  creatures  !  *'  in  a 
tone  of  much  pity  for  their  miserable  condition. 

Little  Dorrit  was  deeply  anxious  that  he  should  lie  down 
to  compose  himself.  On  Arthur's  speaking  to  her  of  his 
going  to  inform  Pancks  that  he  might  now  appear  as  soon  as 
he  would,  and  pursue  the  joyful  business  to  its  close,  she  en- 
treated him  in  a  whisper  to  stay  with  her,  until  her  father 
should  be  quite  calm  and  at  rest.  He  needed  no  second  en- 
treaty; and  she  prepared  her  father's  bed,  and  begged  him  to  lie 
down.  For  another  half-hour  or  more  he  would  be  persuaded 
to  do  nothing  but  go  about  the  room,  discussing  with  himself 
the  probabilities  for  and  against  the  marshal's  allowing  the 
whole  of  the  prisoners  to  go  to  the  windows  of  the  official 
residence  which  commanded  the  street,  to  see  himself  and 
family  depart  forever  in  a  carriage — which,  he  said,  he 
thought  would  be  a  sight  for  them.  But  gradually  he 
began  to  droop  and  tire,  and  at  last  stretched  himself  upon 
the  bed. 

She  took  her  faithful  place  beside  him,  fanning  him  and 
cooling  his  forehead;  and  he  seemed  to  be  falling  asleep 
(always  with  the  money  in  his  hand),  when  he  unexpectedly 
sat  up  and  said: 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Am  I  to  understand, 
my  dear  sir,  that  I  could — ha — could  pass  through  the 
lodge  at  this  moment,  and — hum — take  a  walk." 


424  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  I  think  not,  Mr.  Dorrit,"  was  the  unwilling  reply. 
**  There  are  certain  forms  to  be  completed;  and  although 
your  detention  here  is  now  in  itself  a  form,  I  fear  that  it  is 
one  that  for  a  little  longer  has  to  be  observed  too." 

At  this  he  shed  tears  again. 

*'  It  is  but  a  few  hours,  sir,"  Clennam  cheerfully  urged 
upon  him. 

*'  A  few  hours,  sir,"  he  returned,  in  a  sudden  passion. 
"  You  talk  very  easily  of  hours,  sir  !  How  long  do  you  sup- 
pose, sir,  that  an  hour  is  to  a  man  who  is  choking  for  want 
of  air?  " 

It  was  his  last  demonstration  for  that  time;  as,  after  shed- 
ding some  more  tears  and  querulously  complaining  that  he 
couldn't  breathe,  he  slowly  fell  into  a  slumber.  Clennam 
.  had  abundant  occupation  for  his  thoughts,  as  he  sat  in  the 
quiet  room  watching  the  father  on  his  bed,  and  the  daughter 
fanning  his  face. 

Little  Dorrit  had  been  thinking  too.  After  softly  putting 
his  gray  hair  aside,  and  touching  his  forehead  with  her  lips, 
she  looked  toward  Arthur,  who  came  nearer  to  her,  and 
pursued  in  a  low  whisper  the  subject  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  will  he  pay  all  his  debts  before  he  leaves 
here  ?  " 

''  No  doubt.     All." 

^*  All  the  debts  for  which  he  has  been  imprisoned  here, 
all  mv  life  and  longer  ?  " 

''  No  doubt." 

There  was  something  of  uncertainty  and  remonstrance  in 
her  look;  something  that  was  not  at  all  satisfaction.  He 
wondered  to  detect  it,  and  said: 

"You  are  glad  that  he  should  do  so  ? " 

"Are  you  ?"  asked  Little  Dorrit,  wistfully. 

"  Am  I  ?    Most  heartily  glad  !  " 

"Then  I  know  I  ought  to  be." 

"  And  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  hard,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  "that  he  should 
have  lost  so  many  years  and  suffered  so  much,  and  at  last 
pay  all  the  debts  as  well.  It  seems  to  me  hard  that  he 
should  pay  in  life  and  money  both." 

"  My  dear  child "  Clennam  was  beginning. 

"Yes,  I  know  I  am  wrong,"  she  pleaded  timidly,  "  don't 
think  any  worse  of  me;  it  has  grown  up  with  me  here." 

The  prison,  which  could  spoil  so  many  things,  had  tainted 
Little  Dorrit's  mind  no  more  than  this.     En2:endered  as  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  425 

confusion  was,  in  compassion  for  the  poor  prisoner,  her 
father,  it  was  the  first  speck  Clennam  had  ever  seen,  it  was 
the  last  speck  Clennam  ever  saw,  of  the  prison  atmosphere 
upon  her. 

He  thought  this,  and  forebore  to  say  another  word.  With 
the  thought,  her  purity  and  goodness  came  before  him  in 
their  brightest  light..  The  little  spot  made  them  the  more 
beautiful. 

Worn  out  with  her  own  emotions,  and  yielding  to  the 
silence  of  the  room,  her  hand  slowed,  slackened,  and  failed 
in  its  fanning  movement,  and  her  head  dropped  down  on 
the  pillow  at  her  father's  side.  Clennam  rose  softly,  opened 
and  closed  the  door  without  a  sound,  and  passed  from  the 
prison,  carrying  the  quiet  with  him  into  the  turbulent  streets. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE    MARSHALSEA    BECOMES  AN  ORPHAN. 

And  now  the  day  arrived,  when  Mr.  Dorrit  and  his  fam- 
ily were  to  leave  the  prison  forever,  and  the  stones  of  its 
much-trodden  pavement  were  to  know  them  no^more. 

The  interval  had  been  short,  but  he  had  greatly  com- 
plained of  its  length,  and  had  been  imperious  with  Mr.  Rugg 
touching  the  delay.  He  had  been  high  with  Mr.  Rugg,  and 
had  threatened  to  employ  some  one  else.  He  had  requested 
Mr.  Rugg  not  to  presume  upon  the  place  in  which  he 
found  him,  but  to  do  his  duty,  sir,  and  to  do  it  with  prompt- 
itude. He  had  told  Mr.  Rugg  that  he  knew  what  lawyers 
and  agents  were,  and  that  he  would  not  siibmit  to  imposi- 
tion. On  that  gentleman's  humbly  representing  that  he  ex- 
erted himself  to  the  utmost,  Miss  Fanny  was  very  short  with 
him;  desiring  to  know  what  less  he  could  do,  when  he  had 
been  told  a  dozen  times  that  money  was  no  object,  and  ex- 
pressing her  suspicion  that  he  forgot  whom  he  talked  to. 

Toward  the  marshal,  who  was  a  marshal  of  many  years' 
standing,  and  with  whom  he  had  never  had  any  previous 
difference,  Mr.  Dorrit  comported  himself  with  severity. 
That  officer,  on  personally  tendering  his  congratulations, 
offered  the  free  use  of  two  rooms  in  his  house  for  Mr.  Dor- 
rit's  occupation  until  his  departure.  Mr.  Dorrit  thanked 
him  at  the  moment,  and  replied  that  he  would  think  of  it; 
but  the  marshal  was  no  sooner  gone  than  he  sat  down  and 


^^^6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

wrote  him  a  cutting  note,  in  which  he  remarked  that  he  had 
never  on  any  former  occasion  had  the  honor  of  receiving  his 
congratulations  (which  was  true,  though  indeed  there  had  not 
been  any  thing  particular  to  congratulate  him  upon),  and 
that  he  begged,  on  behalf  of  himself  and  family  to  repudiate 
the  marshal's  offer,  with  all  those  thanks  which  its  disinter- 
ested character  and  its  perfect  independence  of  all  worldly 
.considerations  demanded. 

Although  his  brother  showed  so  dim  a  glimmering  of  in- 
terest in  their  altered  fortunes,  that  it  was  very  doubtful 
♦vhether  he  understood  them,  Mr.  Dorrit  caused  him  to  be 
measured  for  new  raiment  by  the  hosiers,  tailors,  hatters,  and 
boot-makers  whom  he  called  in  for  himself  ;  and  ordered 
that  his  old  clothes  should  be  taken  from  him  and  burned. 
Miss  Fanny  and  Mr.  Tip  required  no  direction  in  making 
iin  appearance  of  great  fashion  and  elegance;  and  the  three 
passed  this  interval  together  at  the  best  hotel  in  the  neigh- 
borhood— though  truly,  as  Miss  Fanny  said,  the  best  was 
very  indifferent.  In  connection  with  that  establishment, 
Mr.  Tip  hired  a  cabriolet,  horse,  and  groom,  a  very  neat 
turn  out,  which  was  usually  to  be  observed  for  two  or  three 
hours  at  a  time,  gracing  the  Borough  High  Street,  outside 
the  Marshalsea  court-yard.  A  modest  little  hired  chariot 
and  pair  was  also  frequently  to  be  seen  there;  in  alighting 
from  and  entering  which  vehicle.  Miss  Fanny  fluttered  the 
marshal's  daughters  by  the  display  of  inaccessible  bonnets. 

A  great  deal  of  business  was  transacted  in  this  short 
period.  Among  other  items,  Messrs.  Peddle  and  Pool,  solici- 
tors, of  Monument  Yard,  were  instructed  by  their  client 
Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  to  address  a  letter  to  Mr.  Arthur 
Clennam,  inclosing  the  sum  of  twenty-four  pounds  nine  shil- 
lings and  eightpence,  being  the  amount  of  principal  and  in- 
terest computed  at  the  rate  of  five  per  cent,  per  annum,  in 
which  their  client  believed  himself  to  be  indebted  to  Mr. 
Clennam.  In  making  this  communication  and  remittance, 
Messrs.  Peddle  and  Pool  were  further  instructed  by  their 
client  to  remind  Mr.  Clennam,  that  the  favor  of  the  advance 
now  repaid  (including  gate-fees)  had  not  been  asked  of  him, 
and  to  inform  him  that  it  would  not  have  been  accepted  if  it 
had  been  openly  proffered  in  his  name.  With  which  they 
requested  a  stamped  receipt,  and  remained  his  obedient  serv- 
ants. A  great  deal  of  business  had  likewise  to  be  done, 
within  the  so-soon-to-be-orphaned  Marshalsea,  by  Mr.  Dorrit 
so  long  its  father,  chiefly  arising  out  of  applications  made  to 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  427 

him  by  collegians  for  small  sums  of  money.  To  these  he 
responded  with  the  greatest  liberality,  and  with  no  lack  of 
formality;  always  first  writing  to  appoint  a  time  at  which 
the  applicant  might  wait  upon  him  in  his  room,  and  then 
receiving  him  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  accumulation  of  docu- 
ments, and  accompanying  his  donation  (for  he  said  in  every 
such  case,  "  it  is  a  donation,  not  a  loan  ")  with  a  great  deal 
of  good  counsel  ;  to  the  effect  that  the,  he  expiring  father 
of  the  Marshalsea,  hoped  to  be  long  remembered,  as  an  ex- 
ample that  a  man  might  preserve  his  own  and  the  general 
respect  even  there. 

The  collegians  were  not  envious.  Besides  that  they  had 
a  personal  and  traditional  regard  for  a  collegian  of  so  many 
years'  standing,  the  event  was  creditable  to  the  college,  and 
made  it  famous  in  the  newspapers.  Perhaps  more  of  them 
thought,  too,  than  were  quite  aware  of  it,  that  the  thing 
might  in  the  lottery  of  chances  have  happened  to  themselves, 
or  that  something  of  the  sort  might  yet  happen  to  them- 
selves, some  day  or  other.  They  took  it  very  well.  A  few 
were  low  at  the  thought  of  being  left  behind,  and  being  left 
poor;  but  even  these  did  not  grudge  the  family  their  brilliant 
reverse.  There  might  have  been  much  more  envy  in  politer 
places.  It  seems  probable  that  mediocrity  of  fortune  would 
have  been  disposed  to  be  less  magnanimous  than  the  colle- 
gians, who  lived  from  hand  to  mouth — from  the  pawnbroker's 
hand  to  the  day's  dinner. 

They  got  up  an  address  to  him,  which  they  presented  in  a 
neat  frame  and  glass  (though  it  was  not  afterward  displayed 
in  the  family  mansion  or  preserved  among  the  family  papers); 
and  to  which  he  returned  a  gracious  answer.  In  that  docu- 
ment he  assured  them,  in  a  royal  manner,  that  he  received 
the  profession  of  their  attachment  with  a  full  conviction  of 
its  sincerity;  and  again  generally  exhorted  them  to  follow  his 
example — which,  at  least  in  so  far  as  coming  into  a  great 
property  was  concerned,  there  is  no  doubt  they  would  have 
gladly  imitated.  He  took  the  same  occasion  of  inviting  them 
to  a  comprehensive  entertainment,  to  be  given  to  the  whole 
college  in  the  yard,  and  at  which  he  signified  he  would  have 
the  honor  of  taking  a  parting  glass  to  the  health  and  happi- 
ness of  all  those  whom  he  was  about  to  leave  behind. 

He  did  not  in  person  dine  at  this  public  repast  (it  took 
place  at  two  in  the  afternoon  and  his  dinners  now  came  in 
from  the  hotel  at  six),  but  his  son  was  so  good  as  to  take  the 
head  of  the  principal   table,  and  to  be  very  free  and  engag- 


428  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ing.  He  himself  went  about  among  the  company,  and  took 
notice  of  individuals,  and  saw  that  the  viands  were  of  the 
quality  he  had  ordered,  and  that  all  were  served.  On  the 
whole,  he  was  like  a  baron  of  the  olden  time,  in  a  rare  good 
humor.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  repast,  he  pledged  his 
guests  in  a  bumper  of  old  Madeira;  and  told  them  that  he 
hoped  they  had  enjoyed  themselves,  and  what  was  more,  that 
they  would  enjoy  themselves  for  the  rest  of  the  evening;  that 
he  wished  them  well;  and  that  he  bade  them  welcome.  His 
health  being  drunk  with  acclamations,  he  was  not  so  baronial 
after  all,  but  that  in  trying  to  return  thanks  he  broke  down, 
in  the  manner  of  a  mere  serf  with  a  heart  in  his  breast,  and 
wept  before  them  all.  After  this  great  success,  which  he 
supposed  to  be  a  failure,  he  gave  them  "  Mr.  Chivery  and 
his  brother  officers;"  whom  he  had  beforehand  presented 
with  ten  pounds  each,  and  who  were  all  in  attendance.  Mr. 
Chivery  spoke  to  the  toast,  saying.  What  you  undertake  to 
lock  up,  lock  up;  but  remember  that  you  are,  in  the  words  of 
the  fettered  African,  a  man  and  a  brother  ever.  The  lists 
of  toasts  disposed  of,  Mr„  Dorrit  urbanely  went  through  the 
motions  of  playing. a  game  at  skittles  with  the  collegian  who 
was  the  next  oldest  inhabitant  to  himself;  and  left  the  ten- 
antry to  their  diversions. 

But  all  these  occurrences  preceded  the  final  Gay.  And  now 
the  day  arrived  when  he  and  his  family  were  to  leave  the 
prison  forever,  and  when  the  stones  of  its  much  trodden 
pavement  were  to  know  them  no  more. 

Noon  was  the  hour  appointed  for  the  departure.  As  it 
approached  there  was  not  a  collegian  within  doors,  nor  a 
turnkey  absent.  The  latter  class  of  gentlemen  appeared  in 
their  Sunday  clothes,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  collegians 
were  brightened  up  as  much  as  circumstances  allowed.  Two 
or  three  flags  were  even  displayed,  and  the  children  put  on 
odds  and  ends  of  ribbon.  Mr.  Dorrit  himself,  at  this  trying 
time,  preserved  a  serious  but  graceful  dignity.  Much  of  his 
attention  was  given  to  his  brother,  as  to  whose  bearing  on 
the  great  occasion  he  felt  anxious. 

^'  My  dear  Frederick,."  said  he,  ''  if  you  will  give  me  your 
arm,  we  will  pass  among  our  friends  together.  1  think  it  is 
right  that  we  shauM  go  out  arm  in  arm,  my  dear  Fred- 
erick." 

"  Hah  !"  said  Frederick.     **  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes." 

"  And  if,  my  dear  Frederick — if  you  could,  without  put-' 
ting  any  great  constraint  upon  yourself,  throw  a  little  (pray 


I 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  429 

excuse  me,  Frederick),  a  little  polish  into  your  usual  de- 
meanor  " 

^*  William,  William,"  said  the  other,  shaking  his  head, 
"  it's  for  you  to  do  all  that.  I  don't  know  how.  All  forgot- 
ten, forgotten  !" 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,"  returned  William,  "for  that  very 
reason,  if  no  other,  you  must  positively  try  to  rouse  your- 
self. What  you  have  forgotten  you  must  now  begin  to 
recall,  my  dear  Frederick.     Your  position " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Frederick. 

"  Your  position,  my  dear  Frederick." 

"  Mine  ?  "  He  looked  first  at  his  own  figure,  and  then  at 
his  brother's,  and  then  drawing  a  long  breath,  cried,  *'  Hah, 
to  be  sure  !     Yes,  yes,  yes." 

^'  Your  position,  my  dear  Frederick,  is  a  very  fine  one. 
Your  position,  as  my  brother,  is  a  very  fine  one.  And  I 
know  that  it  belongs  to  your  conscientious  nature  to  try  to 
become  worthy  of  it,  my  dear  Frederick,  and  to  try  to  adorn 
it.     To  be  no  discredit  to  it,  but  to  adorn  it." 

'*  William,"  said  the  other  weakly,  and  with  a  sigh,  "  I  will 
do  any  thing  you  wish,  my  brother,  provided  it  lies  in  my 
power.  Pray  be  so  kind  as  to  recollect  what  a  limited  power 
mine  is.  What  would  you  wish  me  to  do  to-day,  brother  ? 
Say  what  it  is,  only  say  what  it  is." 

"  My  dearest  Frederick,  nothing.  It  is  not  worth  troub- 
ling so  good  a  heart  as  yours  with." 

'^  Pray  trouble  it,"  returned  the  other.  "  It  finds  it  no 
trouble,  William,  to  do  any  thing  it  can  for  you." 

William  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  murmured 
with  august  satisfaction,  "  Blessing  on  your  attachment, 
my  poor  dear  fellow  !  "  Then  he  said  aloud,  *^  Well,  my 
dear  Frederick,  if  you  will  only  try,  as  we  walk  out,  to  show 
that  you  are  alive  to  the  occasion — that  you  think  aboutit  —  " 

"  What  would  you  advise  me  to  think  about  it  ?  "  returned 
his  submissive  brother. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Frederick,  how  can  J  answer  you  ?  I  can 
only  say  what,  in  leaving  these  good  people,  I  think  myself." 

"  That's  it  !  "  cried  the  brother.     *^  That  will  help  me." 

*^  I  find  that  I  think,  my  dear  Frederick,  and  with  mixed 
emotions  in  which  a  softened  compassion  predominates,  what 
will  they  do  without  me  !  " 

"  True,"  returned  his  brother.  "  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes.  I'll 
think  that  as  we  go,  what  will  they  do  without  my  brother  ! 
Poor  things  !     What  will  they  do  without  him  !  " 


430  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Twelve  o'clock  having  just  struck,  and  the  carriage  being 
reported  ready  in  the  outer  court-yard,  the  brothers  proceeded 
down  stairs  arm  in  arm.  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire  (once  Tip) 
and  his  sister  Fanny  followed,  also  arm  in  arm;  Mr.  Plornish 
and  Maggy,  to  whom  had  been  intrusted  the  removal  of 
such  of  the  family  effects  as  were  considered  worth  remov- 
ing, followed,  bearing  bundles  and  burdens  to  be  packed  in 
a  cart. 

In  the  yard,  were  the  collegians  and  turnkeys.  In  the 
yard,  were  Mr.  Pancks  and  Mr.  Rugg,  come  to  see  the  last 
touch  given  to  their  work.  In  the  yard,  was  young  John 
making  a  new  epitaph  for  himself,  on  the  occasion  of  his  dy- 
ing of  a  broken  heart.  In  the  yard,  was  the  patriarchal  Cas- 
by,  looking  so  tremendously  benevolent  that  many  enthusi- 
astic collegians  grasped  him  fervently  by  the  hand,  and  the 
wives  and  female  relatives  of  many  more  collegians  kissed 
his  hand,  nothing  doubting  that  he  had  done  it  all.  In  the 
yard,  was  the  usual  chorus  of  people  proper  to  such  a  place. 
In  the  yard,  was  the  man  with  the  shadowy  grievance  re- 
specting the  fund  which  the  marshal  embezzled,  who  had 
got  up  at  five  in  the  morning  to  complete  the  copying  of  a 
perfectly  unintelligible  history  of  that  transaction,  which  he 
had  committed  to  Mr.  Dorrit's  care,  as  a  document  of  the 
last  importance,  calculated  to  stun  the  government  and  effect 
the  marshal's  downfall.  In  the  yard,  was  the  insolvent  whose 
utmost  energies  were  always  set  on  getting  into  debt,  who 
broke  into  prison  with  as  much  pains  as  other  men  have 
broken  out  of  it,  and  who  was  always  being  cleared  and 
complimented;  while  the  insolvent  at  his  elbow — a  mere 
little,  sniveling,  striving  tradesman,  half  dead  of  anxious  ef- 
forts to  keep  out  of  debt — found  it  a  hard  matter,  indeed,  to 
get  a  commissioned  to  release  him  with  much  reproof  and 
reproach.  In  the  yard,  was  the  man  of  many  children  and 
many  burdens,  whose  failure  astonished  every  body;  in  the 
yard,  was  the  man  of  no  children  and  large  resources,  whose 
failure  astonished  nobody.  There,  were  the  people  who 
were  always  going  out  to-morrow,  and  always  putting  it  off; 
there,  were  the  people  who  had  come  in  yesterday,  and  who 
were  much  more  jealous  and  resentful  of  this  freak  of  fort- 
une than  the  seasoned  birds.  There,  were  some  who,  in 
pure  meanness  of  spirit,  cringed  and  bowed  before  the  en- 
riched collegian  and  his  family;  there,  were  others  who  did  so 
really  because  their  eyes,  accustomed  to  the  gloom  of  their 
imprisonment  and  poverty,  could  not  support  the  light  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  431 

such  bright  sunshine.  There,  were  many  whose  shillings 
had  gone  into  his  pocket  to  buy  him  meat  and  drink  ;  but 
none  who  were  now  obtrusively  hail  fellow  well  met  !  with 
him,  on  the  strength  of  that  assistance.  It  was  rather  to  be 
remarked  of  the  caged  birds,  that  they  were  a  little  shy  of 
the  bird  about  to  be  so  grandly  free,  and  that  they  had  a 
tendency  to  withdraw  themselves  toward  the  bars,  and  seem 
a  little  fluttered  as  he  passed. 

Through  these  spectators,  the  little  procession,  headed  by 
the  two  brothers,  moved  slowly  to  the  gate.  Mr.  Dorrit, 
yielding  to  the  vast  speculation  how  the  poor  creatures  were 
to  get  on  without  him,  was  great,  and  sad,  but  not  absorbed. 
He  patted  children  on  the  head  like  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
going  to  church,  he  spoke  to  people  in  the*  background  by 
their  Christian  names,  he  condescended  to  all  present, 
and  seemed  for  their  consolation  to  walk  encircled  by  the 
legend  in  golden  character,  "  Be  comforted,  my  people  ! 
Bear  it !  " 

At  last  three  honest  cheers  announced  that  he  had  passed 
the  gate,  and  that  the  Marshalsea  was  an  orphan.  Before 
they  had  ceased  to  ring  in  the  echoes  of  the  prison  walls,  the 
family  had  got  into  their  carriage,  and  the  attendant  had  the 
steps  in  his  hand. 

Then,  and  not  before,  **  Good  gracious !  '*  cried  Miss 
Fanny  all  at  once,  "  where's  Amy  !  " 

Her  father  had  thought  she  was  with  her  sister.  Her  sis- 
ter had  thought  she  was  "  somewhere  or  other."  They  had 
all  trusted  to  finding  her,  as  they  had  always  done,  quietly 
in  the  right  place  at  the  right  moment.  This  going  away 
was  perhaps  the  very  first  action  of  their  joint  lives  that 
they  had  got  through  without  her. 

A  minute  might  have  been  consumed  in  the  ascertaining 
of  these  points,  when  Miss  Fanny,  who,  from  her  seat  in  the 
carriage,  commanded  the  long  narrow  passage  leading  to 
the  lodge,  flushed  indignantly. 

*' Now  I  do  say,  pa,"  cried  she,  *' that  this  is  disgrace- 
ful !  " 

"  What  is  disgraceful,  Fanny  ?  "  . 

"  I  do  say,"  she  repeated,  "  this  is  perfectly  infamous  ! 
Really  almost  enough,  even  at  such  a  time  as  this,  to  make 
one  wish  one  was  dead  !  Here  is  that  child  Amy,  in  her 
ugly  old  shabby  dress,  which  she  was  so  obstinate  about, 
pa,  which  I  over  and  over  again  begged  and  prayed  her  to 
change,  and  which  she  over  and  over  again  objected  to,  and 


432  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

promised  to  change  to-day,  saying  she  wished  to  wear  it  as 
long  as  ever  she  remained  in  there  with  you — which  was 
absolutely  romantic  nonsense  of  the  lowest  kind— here  is 
that  child  Amy  disgracing  us,  to  the  last  moment  and  at  the 
last  moment,  by  being  carried  out  in  that  dress  after  all. 
And  by  that  Mr.  Clennam  too  !  '* 

The  offense  was  proved,  as  she  delivered  the  indictment. 
Clennam  appeared  at  the  carriage-door,  bearing  the  little 
insensible  figure  in  his  arms. 

^'  She  has  been  forgotten,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  pity  not 
free  from  reproach.  ^*  I  ran  up  to  her  room  (which  Mr. 
Chivery  showed  me)  and  found  the  door  open,  and  that  she- 
had  fainted  on  the  floor,  dear  child.  She  appeared  to  have 
gone  to  change  her  dress,  and  to  have  sunk  down  over- 
powered. It  may  have  been  the  cheering,  or  it  may  have 
happened  sooner.  Take  care  of  this  poor  cold  hand.  Miss 
Dorrit.     Don't  let  it  fall." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Miss  Dorrit,  bursting  into 
tears.  *'  I  believe  I  know  what  to  do,  if  you  will  give  me 
leave.  Dear  Amy,  open  your  eyes,  that's  a  love  !  Oh,  Amy, 
Amy,  I  really  am  so"  vexed  and  ashamed  !  Do  rouse  your- 
self, darling  !  Oh,  why  are  they  not  driving  on  !  Pray,  pa, 
do  drive  on  !  " 

The  attendant,  getting  between  Clennam  and  the  carriage- 
door,  with  a  sharp  "  By  your  le^ve,  sir  !  "  bundled  up  the 
steps,  and  they  drove  away. 


BOOK  THE  SECOND.     RICHES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FELLOW-TRAVELERS. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  year,  darkness  and  night  were  creep- 
ing up  to  the  highest  ridges  of  the  Alps. 

It  was  vintage-time  in  the  valleys  on  the  Swiss  side  of  the 
Pass  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard,  and  along  the  banks  of  the 
Lake  of  Geneva.  The  air  there  was  charged  with  the  scent 
of  gathered  grapes.  Baskets,  troughs,  and  tubs  of  grapes, 
stood  in  the  dim  village  door-ways,  stopped  the  steep  and 
narrow  village  streets,  and  had  been  carrying  all  day  along 
the  roads  and  lanes.  Grapes,  spilled  and  crushed  under  foot, 
lay  about  everywhere.  The  child  carried  in  a  sling  by  the 
laden  peasant-woman  toiling  home,  was  quieted  with  picked- 
up  grapes;  the  idiot  sunning  his  big  goiter  under  the  eaves  of 
the  wooden  chalet  by  the  way  to  the  waterfall,  sat  munch- 
ing grapes;  the  breath  of  the  cows  and  goats  was  redolent 
of  leaves  and  stalks  of  grapes;  the  company  in  every  little 
cabaret  were  eating,  drinking,  talking  grapes.  A  pity  that 
no  ripe  touch  of  this  generous  abundance  could  be  given  to 
the  thin,  hard,  stony  wine  which  after  all  was  made  from 
the  grapes  ! 

The  air  had  been  warm  and  transparent  through  the  whole 
of  the  bright  day.  Shining  metal  spires  and  church-roofs, 
distant  and  rarely  seen,  had  sparkled  in  the  view;  and  the 
snowy  mountain-tops  had  been  so  clear  that  unaccustomed 
eyes,  canceling  the  intervening  country,  and  slighting  their 
rugged  height  for  something  fabulous,  would  have  measured 
them  as  within  a  few  hours'  easy  reach.  Mountain-peaks  of 
great  celebrity  in  the  valleys,  whence  no  trace  of  their  exist- 
ence was  visible  sometimes  for  months  together,  had  been 
since  morning  plain  and  near,  in  the  blue  sky.  And  now, 
when  it  was  dark  below,  though  they  seemed    solemnly  to 


434  LITTLE  DORRLr. 

recede,  like  specters  who  were  going  to  vanish,  as  the  red 
dye  of  the  sunset  faded,  out  of  them  and  left  them  coldly 
white,  they  were  yet  distinctly  defined  in  their  loneliness, 
above  the  mists  and  shadows. 

Seen  from  those  solitudes,  and  from  the  pass  of  the  Great 
Saint  Bernard,  which  was  one  of  them,  the  ascending  night 
came  up  the  mountain  like  a  rising  water.  When  it  at  last 
rose  to  the  walls  of  the  convent  of  the  Great  Saint  Bernard, 
it  was  as  if  that  weather-beaten  structure  were  another  ark, 
and  floated  away  up  on  the  shadowy  waves. 

Darkness,  outstripping  some  visitors  on  mules,  had  risen 
thus  to  the  rough  convent  walls,  when  those  travelers  were 
yet  climbing  the  mountain.  As  the  heat  of  the  glowing 
day,  when  they  had  stopped  to  drink  at  the  streams  of  melted 
ice  and  snow,  was  changed  to  the  searching  cold  of  the  frosty 
rarefied  night  air  at  a  great  height,  so  the  fresh  beauty  of 
the  lower  journey  had  yielded  to  barrenness  and  desolation. 
A  craggy  track,  up  which  the  mules  in  single  file,  scrambled 
and  turned  from  block  to  block,  as  though  they  were  ascend- 
ing the  broken  staircase  of  a  gigantic  ruin,  was  their  way 
now.  No  trees  were  to  be  seen,  nor  any  vegetable  growth, 
save  a  poor  brown  scrubby  moss,  freezing  in  the  chinks  of 
rock.  Blackened  skeleton  arms  of  wood  by  the  wayside 
pointed  upward  to  the  convent,  as  if  the  ghosts  of  former 
travelers  overwhelmed  by  the  snow  haunted  the  scene  of 
their  distress.  Icicle-hung  caves  and  cellars  built  for  refuges 
from  sudden  storms,  were  like  so  many  whispers  of  the  perils 
of  the  place;  never-resting  wreaths  and  mazes  of  mist  wan- 
dered about,  hunted  by  a  moaning  wind  ;  and  snow,  the 
besetting  danger  of  the  mounta/in,  against  which  all  its 
defenses  were  taken,  drifted  sharply  down. 

The  file  of  mules,  jaded  by  their  day's  work,  turned  and 
wound  slowly  up  the  steep  ascent;  the  foremost  led  by  a 
guide  on  foot,  in  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and  round  jacket, 
carrying  a  mountain  staff  or  two  upon  his  shoulder,  with 
whom  another  guide  conversed.  There  was  no  speaking 
among  the  string  of  riders.  The  sharp  cold,  the  fatigue  of 
the  journey,  and  a  new  sensation  of  a  catching  in  the  breath, 
partly  as  if  they  had  just  emerged  from  very  clear  crisp  water, 
and  partly  as  if  they  had  been  sobbing,  kept  them  silent. 

At  length,  a  light  on  the  summit  of  the  rocky  staircase 
gleamed  through  the  snow  and  mist.  The  guides  called  to 
the  mules,  the  mules  picked  up  their  drooping  heads,  the 
travelers'  tongues  were  loosened,  and  in  a  sudden  burst  of 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  435 

slipping,  climbing,  jingling,  clinking,  and  talking,  they  arrived 
at  the  convent  door. 

Other  mules  had  arrived  not  long  before,  some  with  peas- 
ant riders  and  some  with  goods,  and  had  trodden  the  snow 
about  the  door  into  a  pool  of  mud.  Riding-saddles  and 
bridles,  pack-saddles  and  strings  of  bells,  mules  and  men, 
lanterns,  torches,  sacks,  provender,  barrels,  cheeses,  kegs  of 
honey  and  butter,  straw  bundles  and  packages  of  many 
shapes,  were  crowded  confusedly  together  in  this  thawed 
quagmire,  and  about  the  steps.  Up  here  in  the  clouds, 
every  thing  was  seen  through  cloud,  and  seemed  dissolving 
into  cloud.  The  breath  of  the  men  was  cloud,  the  breath  of 
the  mules  was  cloud,  the  lights  were  encircled  by  cloud, 
speakers  close  at  hand  were  not  seen  for  cloud,  though  their 
voices  and  all  other  sounds  were  surprisingly  clear.  Of  the 
cloudy  line  of  mules  hastily  tied  to  rings  in  the  wall,  one 
would  bile  another,  or  kick  another,  and  the  whole  mist 
would  be  disturbed:  with  men  diving  into  it,  and  cries  of 
men  and  beasts  coming  out  of  it,  and  no  bystanders  discern- 
ing what  was  wrong.  In  the  midst  of  this,  the  great  stable  of 
the  convent,  occupying  the  basement  story,  and  entered  by 
the  basement  door,  outside  of  which  all  the  disorder  was, 
poured  forth  its  contribution  of  cloud,  as  if  the  whole  rugged 
edifice  were  filled  with  nothing  else,  and  would  collapse  as 
soon  as  it  had  emptied  itself,  leaving  the  snow  to  fall  upon 
the  bare  mountain  summit. 

While  all  this  noise  and  hurry  were  rife  among  the  living 
travelers,  there,  too,  silently  assembled  in  a  grated  house, 
half-a-dozen  paces  removed,  with  the  same  cloud  infolding 
them,  and  the  same  snow  flakes  drifting  in  upon  them,  were 
the  dead  travelers  found  upon  the  mountain.  The  mother, 
storm-belated  many  winters  ago,  still  standing  in  the  corner 
with  the  baby  at  her  breast ;  the  man  who  had  frozen  with 
his  arm  raised  to  his  mouth  in  fear  or  hunger,  still  pressing  it 
with  his  dry  lips  after  years  and  years.  An  awful  company, 
mysteriously  come  together  !  A  wild  destiny  for  that  mother 
to  have  foreseen,  ^*  Surrounded  by  so  many  and  such  com- 
panions upon  whom  I  never  looked,  and  never  shall  look,  I 
and  my  child  will  dwell  together  inseparable,  on  the  Great 
Saint  Bernard,  outlasting  generations  who  will  come  to  see 
us,  and  will  never  know  our  name,  or  one  word  of  our  story 
but  the  end." 

The  living  travelers  thought  little  or  nothing  of  the  dead 
just  then.     They  thought  much  more  of  alighting  at  the  con- 


436  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

vent  door,  and  warming  themselves  at  the  convent  fire.  Dis- 
engaged from  the  turmoil,  which  was  already  calming  down 
as  the  crowd  of  mules  began  to  be  bestowed  in  the  stable, 
they  hurried  shivering  up  the  steps  and  into  the  building. 
There  was  a  smell  within,  coming  up  from  the  floor,  of 
tethered  beasts,  like  the  smell  of  a  menagerie  of  wild  animals. 
There  were  strong  arched  galleries  within,  huge  stone  piers, 
great  staircases,  and  thick  walls  pierced  with  small  sunken 
windows — fortifications  against  the  mountain  storms,  as  if 
they  had  been  human  enemies.  There  were  gloomy  vaulted 
sleeping-rooms  within,  intensely  cold  but  clean  and  hospit- 
ably prepared  for  guests.  Finally,  there  was  a  parlor  for 
guests  to  sit  in  and  to  sup  in,  where  a  table  was  already  laid, 
and  where  a  blazing  fire  shone  red  and  high. 

In  this  room,  after  having  had  their  quarters  for  the  night 
allotted  to  them  by  two  young  fathers,  the  travelers  pres- 
ently drew  round  thie  hearth.  They  were  in  three  parties  ; 
of  whom  the  first,  as  the  most  numerous  and  important,  was 
the  slowest,  and  had  been  overtaken  by  one  of  the  others  on 
the  way  up.  It  consisted  of  an  elderly  lady,  two  gray- 
haired  gentlemen,  two  young  ladies,  and  their  brother. 
These  were  attended  (not  to  mention  four  guides),  by  a 
courier,  two  footmen,  and  two  waiting-maids  :  which  strong 
body  of  inconvenience  was  accommodated  elsewhere  under 
the  same  roof.  The  party  that  had  overtaken  them  and 
followed  in  their  train,  consisted  of  only  three  members  ; 
one  lady  and  two  gentlemen.  The  third  party,  which  had 
ascended  from  the  valley  on  the  Italian  side  of  the  Pass,  and 
had  arrived  first,  were  four  in  number  :  a  plethoric,  hungry, 
and  silent  German  tutor  in  spectacles,  on  a  tour  with  three 
young  men,  his  pupils,  all  plethoric,  hungry,  and  silent,  and 
all  in  spectacles. 

These  three  groups  sat  round  the  fire  eying  each  other 
dryly,  and  waiting  for  supper.  Only  one  among  them,  one 
of  the  gentlemen  belonging  to  the  party  of  three,  made 
advances  toward  conversation.  Throwing  out  his  lines  for 
the  chief  of  the  important  tribe,  while  addressing  himself  to 
his  own  companions,  he  remarked,  in  a  tone  of  voice  which 
included  all  the  company  if  they  chose  to  be  included,  that 
it  had  been  a  long  day,  and  that  he  felt  for  the  ladies.  That 
he  feared  one  of  the  young  ladies  was  not  a  strong  or  accus- 
tomed traveler,  and  had  been  over-fatigued  two  or  three 
hours  ago.  That  he  had  observed,  from  his  station  in  the 
rear^  that  she  sat  her  mule  as  if  she  was  exhausted.     That  he 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  437 

had,  twice  or  thrice  afterward,  done  himself  the  honor  of 
inquiring  of  one  of  the  guides,  when  he  fell  behind,  how  the 
young  lady  did.  That  he  had  been  enchanted  to  learn  that 
she  had  recovered  her  spirits,  and  that  it  had  been  but  a 
passing  discomfort.  That  he  trusted  (by  this  time  he  had 
secured  the  eyes  of  the  chief,  and  addressed  him)  he  might 
be  permitted  to  express  his  hope  that  she  was  now  none  the 
worse,  and  that  she  would  not  regret  having  made  the  jour- 
ney. 

'^  My  daughter,  I  am  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  returned  the 
chief,  "  is  quite  restored,  and  has  been  greatly  interested." 

*'  New  to  mountains,  perhaps  ? "  said  the  insinuating 
traveler. 

'^  New  to — ha — to  mountains,"  said  the  chief. 

"  But  you  are  familiar  with  them,  sir  ?  "  the  insinuating 
traveler  resumed. 

"  I  am  —  hum  —  tolerably  familiar.  Not  of  late  years. 
Not  of  late  years,"  replied  the  chief,  with  a  flourish  of  hia 
hand. 

The  insinuating  traveler,  acknowledging  the  flourish  with 
an  inclination  of  his  head,  passed  from  the  chief  to  the 
second  young  lady,  who  had  not  been  referred  to,  otherwise 
than  as  one  of  the  ladies  in  whose  behalf  he  felt  so  sensitive 
an  interest. 

He  hoped  she  was  not  incommoded  by  the  fatigue  of  the 
day. 

''  Incommoded,  certainly,"  returned  the  young  lady,  *'  but 
not  tired." 

The  insinuating  traveler  complimented  her  on  the  justice 
of  the  distinction.  It  was  what  he  had  meant  to  say. 
Every  lady  must  doubtless  be  incommoded,  by  having  to 
do  with  that  proverbially  unaccommodating  animal,  the  mule. 

''  We  have  had,  of  course,"  said  the  young  lady,  who  was 
rather  reserved  and  haughty,  *'  to  leave  the  carriages  and 
fourgon  at  Martigny.  And  the  impossibility  of  bringing  any 
thing  that  one  wants  to  this  inaccessible  place,  and  the  ne- 
cessity of  leaving  every  comfort  behind,  is  not  convenient." 

*'  A  savage  place,  indeed,"  said  the  insinuating  traveler. 

The  elderly  lady,  who  was  a  model  of  accurate  dressing, 
and  whose  manner  was  perfect,  considered  as  a  piece  of 
machinery,  here  interposed  a  remark  in  a  low  soft  voice. 

*'  But,  like  other  inconvenient  places,"  she  observed,  *^  it 
must  be  seen.  As  a  place  much  spoken  of,  it  is  necessary  to 
see  it." 


43^  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Oh  !  I  have  not  the  least  objection  to  seeing  it,  I  as- 
sure you,  Mrs.  General,"  returned  the  other,  carelessly. 

"You,  madame,"  said  the  insinuating  traveler,  *' have 
visited  this  spot  before  ?  " 

*^Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  General.  "I  have  been  here  be- 
fore. Let  me  recommend  you,  my  dear,**  to  the  former 
young  lady,  *^  to  shade  your  face  from  the  hot  wood,  after 
exposure  to  the  mountain  air  and  snow.  You,  too,  my 
dear,"  to  the  other  and  younger  lady,  who  immediately  did 
so;  while  the  former  merely  said,  "  Thank  you,  Mrs.  General, 
I  am  perfectly  comfortable,  and  prefer  remaining  as  I  am." 

The  brother,  who  had  left  his  chair  to  open  the  piano  that 
stood  in  the  room,  and  who  had  whistled  into  it  and  shut  it 
up  again,  now  came  strolling  back  to  the  fire  with  his  glass 
in  his  eye.  He  was  dressed  in  the  very  fullest  and  complet- 
est  traveling  trim.  The  world  seemed  hardly  large  enough 
to  yield  him  an  amount  of  travel  proportionate  to  his  equip- 
ment. 

*'  These  fellows  are  an  irnxUiense  time  with  supper,"  he 
drawled.  "  I  wonder  what  they'll  give  us  !  Has  any  body 
any  idea  ? " 

"  Not  roast  man,  I  believe,"  replied  the  voice  of  the  second 
gentleman  of  the  party  of  three. 

"  I  suppose  not.     What  d'ye  mean  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  That,  as  you  are  not  to  be  served  for  the  general  sup- 
per, perhaps  you  will  do  us  the  favor  of  not  cooking  yourself, 
at  the  general  fire,"  returned  the  other. 

The  young  gentleman,  who  was  standing  in  an  easy  atti- 
tude on  the  hearth,  cocking  his  glass  at  the  company,  with 
his  back  to  the  blaze  and  his  coat  tucked  under  his  arms, 
something  as  if  he  were  of  the  poultry  species  and  were 
trussed  for  roasting,  lost  countenance  at  this  reply;  he  seemed 
about  to  demand  further  explanation,  when  it  was  discovered 
—  through  all  eyes  turning  on  the  speaker — that  the  lady  with 
him,  who  was  young  and  beautiful,  had  not  heard  what  had 
passed,  through  having  fainted  with  her  head  upon  his 
shoulder. 

**  I  think,"  said  the  gentleman  in  a  subdued  tone,  "I  had 
best  carry  her  straight  to  her  room.  Will  you  call  to 
some  one  to  bring  alight  ?  "  addressing  his  companion,  '^and 
to  show  the  way  ?  In  this  strange  rambling  place  I  don't 
know  that  I  could  find  it." 

"  Pray  let  me  call  my  maid,"  cried  the  taller  of  the  young 
ladies. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  439 

'*  Pray  let  me  put  this  water  to  her  lips,"  said  the  shorter, 
who  had  not  spoken  yet. 

Each  doing  what  she  suggested,  there  was  no  want  of  as- 
sistance. Indeed,  when  the  two  maids  came  in  (escorted  by 
the  courier,  lest  any  one  should  strike  them  dumb  by  ad- 
dressing a  foreign  language  to  them  on  the  road),  there  was 
a  prospect  of  too  much  assistance.  Seeing  this,  and  saying 
as  much  in  a  few  words  to  the  slighter  and  younger  of  the 
two  ladies,  the  gentleman  put  his  wife's  arm  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  carried  her  away. 

His  friend,  being  left  alone  with  the  other  visitors,  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room,  without  coming  to  the  fire 
again,  pulling  his  black  mustache  in  a  contemplative  manner 
as  if  he  felt  himself  committed  to  the  late  retort.  While  the 
subject  of  it  was  breathing  injury  in  a  corner,  the  chief  loftily 
addressed  this  gentleman. 

"  Your  friend,  sir,"  said  he,  "  is — ha — is  a  little  impatient; 
and,  in  his  impatience,  is  not  perhaps  fully  sensible  of  what 
he  owes  to — hum — to — but  we  will  waive  that,  we  will  waive 
that.     Your  friend  is  a  little  impatient,  sir." 

*'  It  may  be  so,  sir,"  returned  the  other.  "  But  having  had 
the  honor  of  making  that  gentleman's  acquaintance  at  the 
hotel  at  Geneva,  where  we  and  much  good  company  met 
some  time  ago,  and  having  had  the  honor  of  exchanging 
company  and  conversation  with  that  gentleman  on  several 
subsequent  excursions,  I  can  hear  nothing — no,  not  even 
from  one  of  your  appearance  and  station,  sir — detrimental 
to  that  gentleman." 

"  You  are  in  no  danger,  sir,  of  hearing  any  such  thing 
from  me.  In  remarking  that  your  friend  has  shown  impa- 
tience, I  say  no  such  thing.  I  make  that  remark,  because  it 
is  not  to  be  doubted  that  my  son,  being  by  birth  and  by — ha 
— by  education  a — hum — a  gentleman,  would  have  readily 
adapted  himself  to  any  obligingly-expressed  wish  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  fire  being  equally  accessible  to  the  whole  of  the 
present  circle.  Which,  in  principle — ha — for  all  are — hum 
— equal  on  these  occasions — I  consider  right." 

''  Good,"  was  the  reply.  **  And  there  it  ends  !  I  am  your 
son's  obedient  servant.  I  beg  your  son  to  receive  the  assur- 
ance of  my  profound  consideration.  And  now,  sir,  I  ma^ 
admit,  freely  admit,  that  my  friend  is  sometimes  of  a  sar^ 
castic  temper.*' 

*'The  lady  is  your  friend's  wife,  sir  .f* " 

"  The  lady  is  my  friend's  wife,  sir." 


440  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  She  is  very  handsome.'* 

"  Sir,  she  is  peerless.  They  are  still  in  the  first  year  of 
their  marriage.  They  are  still  partly  on  a  marriage,  and 
partly  on  an  artistic  tour." 

"  Your  friend  is  an  artist,  sir  ?  " 

The  gentleman  replied  by  kissing  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand,  and  wafting  the  kiss  the  length  of  his  arm  toward 
heaven.  As  who  should  say,  I  devote  him  to  the  celestial 
powers  as  an  immortal  artist  ! 

^' But  he  is  a  man  of  family,"  he  added.  "His  con- 
nections are  of  the  best.  He  is  more  than  an  artist  :  he 
is  highly  connected.  He  may,  in  effect,  have  repudiated 
his  connections,  proudly,  impatiently,  sarcastically  (I  meke 
the  concession  of  both  words)  ;  but  he  has  them.  Sparks 
that  have  been  struck  out  during  our  intercourse  have  shown 
me  this." 

''  Well !  I  hope,"  said  the  lofty  gentleman,  with  the  air  of 
finally  disposing  of  the  subject,  ''  that  the  lady's  indisposition 
may  be  only  temporary." 

"  Sir,  I  hope  so." 

"  Mere  fatigue,  I  dare  say." 

'*  Not  altogether  mere  fatigue,  sir,  for  her  mule  stumbled 
to-day,  and  she  fell  from  the  saddle.  She  fell  lightly,  and 
was  up  again  without  assistance,  and  rode  from  us  laughing; 
but  she  complained  toward  evening  of  a  slight  bruise  in  the 
side.  She  spoke  of  it  more  than  once,  as  we  followed  your 
party  up  the  mountain." 

The  head  of  the  large  retinue,  who  was  gracious  but 
not  familiar,  appeared  by  this  time  to  think  that  he  had 
condescended  more  than  enough.  He  said  no  more,  and 
there  was  silence  for  some  quarter  of  an  hour  until  sup- 
per appeared. 

With  the  supper  came  one  of  the  young  fathers  (there 
seemed  to  be  no  old  fathers)  to  take  the  head  of  the  table. 
It  was  like  the  supper  of  an  ordinary  Swiss  hotel,  and  good 
red  wine  grown  by  the  convent  in  more  genial  air  was  not 
wanting.  The  artist  traveler  calmly  came  and  took  his  place 
at  table  when  the  rest  sat  down,  with  no  apparent  sense  upon 
him  of  his  late  skirmish  with  the  completely  dressed  traveler. 

'^  Pray,"  he  inquired  of  the  host,  over  his  soup,  "  has  your 
convent  many  of  its  famous  dogs  now  ? " 

"  Monsieur,  it  has  three." 

"  I  saw  three  in  the  gallery  below.  Doubtless  the  three 
in  question." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  441 

The  host,  a  slender,  bright-eyed,  dark  young  man  of  polite 
manners,  whose  garment  was  a  black  gown  with  stripes  of 
white  crossed  over  it  like  braces,  and  who  no  more  resem- 
bled the  conventional  breed  of  St.  Bernard  monks  than  he 
resembled  the  conventional  breed  of  St.  Bernard  dogs,  re- 
plied, doubtless  those  were  the  three  in  question. 

*'  And  I  think,"  said  the  artist  traveler,  "  I  have  seen  one 
of  them  before." 

It  was  possible.  He  was  a  dog  sufficiently  well  known. 
Monsieur  might  have  easily  seen  him  in  the  valley  or  some- 
where on  the  lake,  when  he  (the  dog)  had  gone  down  with 
one  of  the  order  to  solicit  aid  for  the  convent. 

^'  Which  is  done  in  its  regular  season  of  the  year,  I 
think?" 

Monsieur  was  right. 

**  And  never  without  the  dog.  The  dog  is  very  im- 
portant." 

Again  monsieur  was  right.  The  dog  was  very  important. 
People  were  justly  interested  in  the  dog.  As  one  of  the 
dogs  celebrated  everywhere,  ma'am selle  would  observe. 

Ma'amselle  was  a  little  slow  to  observe  it,  as  though  she 
were  not  yet  well  accustomed  to  the  French  tongue.  Mrs. 
General,  however,  observed  it  for  her. 

'*  Ask  him  if  he  has  saved  many  lives  ?  "  said,  in  his  na- 
tive English,  the  young  man  who  had  been  put  out  of 
countenance. 

The  host  needed  no  translation  of  the  question.  He 
promptly  replied  in  French,  "  No.     Not  this  one." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  the  same  gentleman  asked. 

"  Pardon,"  returned  the  host,  composedly,  "  give  him  the 
opportunity,  and  he  will  do  it  without  doubt.  For  example,  I 
am  well  convinced,"  smiling  sedately,  as  he  cut  up  the  dish 
of  veal  to  be  handed  round,  on  the  young  man  who  had 
been  put  out  of  countenance,  "  that  if  you,  monsieur,  would 
give  him  the  opportunity,  he  would  hasten  with  great  ardor 
to  fulfill  his  duty." 

The  artist  traveler  laughed.  The  insinuating  traveler 
(who  evinced  a  provident  anxiety  to  get  his  full  share  of  the 
supper),  wiping  some  drops  of  wine  from  his  mustache  with 
a  piece  of  bread,  joined  the  conversation. 

**  It  is  becoming  late  in  the  year,  my  father,"  said  he,  "  for 
tourist-travelers,  is  it  not  ?  " 

**  Yes,  it  is  late.  Yet  two  or  three  weeks,  at  most,  and  we 
shall  be  left  to  the  winter  snows." 


442 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


'*  And  then,*'  said  the  insinuating  traveler,  "  for  the  scratch- 
ing dogs  and  the  buried  children,  according  to  the  pictures  !" 

''  Pardon,"  said  the  host,  not  quite  understanding  the  al- 
lusion. "  How,  then  the  scratching  dogs  and  the  buried 
children  according  to  the  pictures  ?  " 

The  artist  traveler  struck  in  again,  before  an  answer  could 
be  given. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  he  coldly  inquired  across  the  table  of 
his  companion,  "  that  none  but  smugglers  come  this  way  in 
the  winter  or  can  have  any  possible  business  this  way  ? " 

"  Holy  blue  !     No,  never  heard  of  it." 

"  So  it  is,  I  believe.  And  as  they  know  the  signs  of  the 
weather  tolerably  well,  they  don't  give  much  employment  to 
the  dogs — who  have  consequently  died  out  rather — though 
this  house  of  entertainment  is  conveniently  situated  for  them- 
selves. Their  young  families,  I  am  told,  they  usually  leave 
at  home.  But  it's  a  grand  idea  !  "  cried  the  artist  traveler, 
unexpectedly  rising  into  a  tone  of  enthusiasm.  "  It's  a  sub- 
lime idea  !  It's  the  finest  idea  in  the  world,  and  brings  tears 
into  a  man's  eyes,  by  Jupiter  !  "  He  then  went  on  eating 
his  veal  with  great  composure. 

There  was  enough  of  mocking  inconsistency  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  speech  to  make  it  rather  discordant,  though  the 
manner  was  refined  and  the  person  well-favored,  and  though 
the  depreciatory  part  of  it  was  so  skillfully  thrown  off,  as  to 
be  very  difficult  for  one  not  perfectly  acquainted  with  the 
English  language  to  understand,  or,  even  understanding,  to 
take  offense  at :  so  simple  and  dispassionate  was  its  tone. 
After  finishing  his  veal  in  the  midst  of  silence^  the  speaker 
again  addressed  his  friend. 

"Look,"  said  he  in  his  former  tone,  "at  this  gentleman, 
our  host,  not  yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  who  in  so  graceful  a 
way  and  with  such  courtly  urbanity  and  modesty  presides 
over  us  !  Manners  fit  for  a  crown  !  Dine  with  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  London  (if  you  can  get  an  invitation)  and  observe 
the  contrast.  This  dear  fellow,  with  the  finest  cut  face  I  ever 
saw,  a  face  in  perfect  drawing,  leaves  some  laborious  life 
and  comes  up  here,  I  don't  know  how  many  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea,  for  no  other  purpose  on  earth  (except  enjoying 
himself,  I  hope,  in  a  capital  refectory)  than  to  keep  an  hotel 
for  idle  poor  devils  like  you  and  me,  and  leave  the  bill  to 
our  consciences  !  Why,  isn't  it  a  beautiful  sacrifice  ?  What 
do  you  want  more  to  touch  us  ?  Because  rescued  people  of 
interesting  appearances  are  not,  for  eight  or  nine  months  out 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  443 

of  every  twelve,  holding  on  here  round  the  necks  of  the  most 
sagacious  of  dogs  carrying  wooden  bottles,  shall  we  dispar- 
age the  place  ?  No  !  Bless  the  place.  It's  a  great  place,  a 
glorious  place  !  " 

The  chest  of  the  gray-haired  gentleman  who  was  the  chief 
of  the  important  party,  had  swelled  as  if  with  protest  against 
his  being  numbered  among  poor  devils.  No  sooner'had  the 
artist  traveler  ceased  speaking  than  he  himself  spoke  with 
great  dignity,  as  having  it  incumbent  on  him  to  take  the  lead 
in  most  places,  and  having  deserted  that  duty  for  a  little 
while. 

He  weightily  communicated  his  opinion  to  their  host,  that 
his  life  must  be  a  very  dreary  life  here  in  the  winter. 

The  host  allowed  to  monsieur  that  it  was  a  little  monoto- 
nous. The  air  was  difficult  to  breathe  for  a  length  of  time 
consecutively.  The  cold  was  very  severe.  One  needed 
youth  and  strength  to  bear  it.  However,  having  them  and 
the  blessing  of  heaven 

Yes,  that  was  very  good.  *^  But  the  confinement,"  said 
the  gray-haired  gentleman. 

There  were  many  days,  even  in  bad  weather,  when  it  was 
possible  to  walk  about  outside.  It  was  the  custom  to  beat  a 
little  track,  and  take  exercise  there. 

"  But  the  space,"  urged  the  gray-haired  gentleman.  "  So 
small.     So — ha — very  limited." 

Monsieur  would  recall  to  himself  that  there  were  the 
refugees  to  visit,  and  that  tracks  had  to  be  made  to  them  also. 

Monsieur  still  urged  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  space  was 
so — ho — hum — so  very  contracted.  More  than  that,  it  was 
always  the  same,  always  the  same. 

With  a  deprecating  smile,  the  host  gently  raised  and 
gently  lowered  his  shoulders.  That  was  true,  he  remarked, 
but  permit  him  to  say.that  almost  all  objects  had  their  various 
points  of  view.  Monsieur  and  he  did  not  see  this  poor  life  of 
his  from  the  same  point  of  view.  Monsieur  was  not  so  used 
to  confinement. 

"I — ha— yes,  very  true,"  said  the  gray-haired  gentleman. 
He  seemed  to  receive  quite  a  shock  from  the  force  of  the 
argument. 

Monsieur,  as  an  English  traveler,  surrounded  by  all  means 
of  traveling  pleasantly  ;  doubtless  possessing  fortune,  car- 
riages, and  servants 

''  Perfectly,  perfectly.  Without  doubt,"  said  the  gentle- 
maiv. 


444  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Monsieur  could  not  easily  place  himself  in  the  position  of 
a  person  who  had  not  the  power  to  choose,  I  will  go  here  to- 
morrow, or  there  next  day  ;  I  will  pass  these  barriers,  I  will 
enlarge  these  bounds.  Monsieur  could  not  realize,  perhaps, 
how  the  mind  accommodated  itself  in  such  things  to  the  force 
of  necessity. 

^^  It  is  true,"  said  monsieur.  ^^  We  will — ha — not  pursue 
the  subject.  You  are — hum — quite  accurate,  I  have  no 
doubt.     We  will  say  no  more." 

The  supper  having  come  to  a  close,  he  drew  his  chair  away 
as  he  spoke,  and  moved  back  to  his  former  place  by  the  fire. 
As  it  was  very  cold  at  the  greater  part  of  the  table,  the  other 
guests  also  resumed  their  former  seats  by  the  fire,  designing 
to  toast  themselves  well  before  going  to  bed.  The  host,  when 
they  rose  from  table,  bowed  to  all  present,  wished  them  good- 
night, and  withdrew.  But  first  the  insinuating  traveler  had 
asked  him  if  they  could  have  some  wine  made  hot  ;  and  as  he 
had  answered  yes,  and  had  presently  afterward  sent  it  in, 
that  traveler,  seated  in  the  center  of  the  group,  and  in  the  full 
heat  of  the  fire,  was  soon  engaged  in  serving  it  out  to  the  rest. 

At  this  time,  the  younger  of  the  two  young  ladies,  who 
had  been  silently  attentive  in  her  dark  corner  (the  fire-light 
was  the  chief  light  in  the  somber  room,  the  lamp  being 
smoky  and  dull)  to  v/hat  had  been  said  of  the  absent  lady, 
glided  out.  She  was  at  a  loss  which  way  to  turn,  when  she 
had  softly  closed  the  door  ;  but,  after  a  little  hesitation 
among  the  sounding  passages  and  the  many  ways,  came  to  a 
room  in  a  corner  of  the  main  gallery,  where  the  servants 
were  at  their  supper.  From  these  she  obtained  a  lamp,  and 
a  direction  to  the  lady's  room. 

It  was  up  the  great  staircase  on  the  story  above.  Here 
and  there,  the  bare  white  walls  were  broken  by  an  iron  grate, 
and  she  thought  as  she  went  along  that  the  place  was  some- 
thing like  a  prison.  The  arched  door  of  the  lady's  room,  or 
cell,  was  not  quite  shut.  After  knocking  at  it  two  or  three 
times  without  receiving  an  answer,  she  pushed  it  gently  open, 
and  looked  in. 

The  lady  lay  with  closed  eyes  on  the  outside  of  the  bed, 
protected  from  the  cold  by  the  blanket  and  wrappers  with 
which  she  had  been  covered  when  she  revived  from  her 
fainting  fit.  A  dull  light  placed  in  the  deep  recess  of  the 
window,  made  little  impression  on  the  arched  room.  The 
visitor  timidly  stepped  to  the  bed,  and  said,  in  a  soft  whisper, 
** Are  you  better?" 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  445 

The  lady  had  fallen  into  a  slumber,  and  the  whisper  was 
too  low  to  awake  her.  Her  visitor,  standing  quite  still, 
looked  at  her  attentively. 

"  She  is  very  pretty,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  never  saw 
so  beautiful  a  face.     Oh,  how  unlike  me  !  '* 

It  was  a  curious  thing  to  say,  but  it  had  some  hidden 
meaning,  for  it  filled  her  eyes  with  tears. 

"  I  know  I  must  be  right.  I  know  he  spoke  of  her  that 
evening.  I  could  very  easily  be  wrong  on  any  other  subject, 
but  not  on  this,  not  on  this  !  " 

With  a  quiet  and  tender  hand  she  put  aside  a  straj^mg 
fold  of  the  sleeper's  hair,  and  then  touched  the  hand  that 
lay  outside  the  covering. 

'^  I  like  to  look  at  her,"  she  breathed  to  herself.  "  I  like 
to  see  what  has  affected  him  so  much." 

She  had  not  withdrawn  her  hand,  when  the  sleeper  opened 
her  eyes,  and  started. 

"  Pray  don't  be  alarmed.  I  am  only  one  of  the  travelers 
from  down  stairs.  I  came  to  ask  if  you  were  better,  and  if  I 
could  do  any  thing  for  you." 

"  I  think  you  have  already  been  so  kind  as  to  send  your 
servants  to  my  assistance  ?  " 

"  No,  not  I  ;  that  was  my  sister.     Are  you  better  ?  " 

"  Much  better.  It  is  only  a  slight  bruise,  and  has  been 
well  looked  to,  and  is  almost  easy  now.  It  made  me  giddy 
and  faint  in  a  moment.  It  had  hurt  me  before  ;  but  at  last 
it  overpowered  me  all  at  once." 

**  May  I  stay  with  you  until  some  one  comes  ?  Would  you 
like  it  ? " 

"  I  should  like  it,  for  it  is  lonely  here  ;  but  I  am  afraid 
you  will  feel  the  cold  too  much." 

**  I  don't  mind  cold.  I  am  not  delicate,  if  I  look  so." 
She  quickly  moved  one  of  the  two  rough  chairs  to  the  bed- 
side, and  sat  down.  The  other  as  quickly  moved  a  part  of 
some  traveling  wrapper  from  herself,  and  drew  it  over  her, 
so  that  her  arm,  in  keeping  it  about  her,  rested  on  her 
shoulder. 

'*  You  have  so  much  the  air  of  a  kind  nurse,"  said  the 
lady,  smiling  on  her,  ^^  that  you  seem  as  if  you  had  come  to 
me  from  home." 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it." 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  home  when  I  woke  just  now.  Of 
my  old  home,  I  mean,  before  I  was  married." 

''And  before  you  were  so  far  away  from  it." 


446  LITTLE  DORRITo 

"  I  have  been  much  further  away  from  it  than  this  ;  but 
then  I  took  the  best  part  of  it  with  me,  and  missed  nothing. 
1  felt  solitary  as  I  dropped  asleep  here,  and,  missing  it  a 
little,  wandered  back  to  it." 

There  was  a  sorrowfully  affectionate  and  regretful  sound 
in  her  voice,  which  made  her  visitor  refrain  from  looking  at 
her  for  the  moment. 

'*  It  is  a  curious  chance  which  at  last  brings  us  together, 
under  this  covering  in  which  you  have  wrapped  me,"  said  the 
visitor,  after  a  pause  ;  '^  for,  do  you  know,  I  think  I  have 
been  looking  for  you  some  time/' 

^'  Looking  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I  "have  a  little  note  here,  which  I  was  to  give  to 
you  whenever  I  found  you.  This  is  it.  Unless  I  greatly 
mistake,  it  is  addressed  to  you.     Is  it  not?" 

The  lady  took  it,  and  said  yes,  and  read  it.  Her  visitor 
watched  her  as  she  did  so.  It  was  very  short.  She  flushed 
a  little  as  she  put  her  lips  to  her  visitor's  cheek,  and  pressed 
her  hand. 

"  The  dear  young  friend  to  whom  he  presents  me,  may  be 
a  comfort  to  me  at  some  time,  he  says.  She  is  truly  a  com- 
fort to  me  the  first  time  I  see  her." 

*'  Perhaps  you  don't,"  said  the  visitor,  hesitating — "  per- 
haps you  don't  know  my  story  ?  Perhaps  he  never  told  you 
my  story  ?  " 

''  No." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  why  should  he  ?  I  have  scarcely  the  right  to 
tell  it  myself,  at  present,  because  I  have  been  entreated  not 
to  do  so.  There  is  not  much  in  it,  but  it  might  account  to 
you  for  my  asking  you  not  to  say  any  thing  about  the  letter 
here.  You  saw  my  family  with  me,  perhaps  ?  Some  of 
them — I  only  say  this  to  you — are  a  little  proud,  a  little 
prejudiced." 

"  You  shall  take  it  back  again,"  said  the  other  ;  **  and  then 
my  husband  is  sure  not  to  see  it.  He  might  see  it  and  speak 
of  it,  otherwise,  by  some  accident.  Will  you  put  it  in  your 
bosom  again,  to  be  certain  ?  " 

She  did  so,  with  great  care.  Her  small,  slight  hand  was 
still  upon  the  letter,  when  they  heard  some  one  in  the  gallery 
outside. 

**  I  promised,"  said  the  visitor,  rising,  "that  I  would  write 
to  him  after  seeing  you  (I  could  hardly  fail  to  see  you  sooner 
or  later),  and  tell  him  if  you  were  well  and  happy.  I  had 
better  say  you  were  well  and  happy." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  447 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  Say  I  was  very  well  and  very  happy, 
and  that  I  thanked  him  affectionately,  and  would  never  for- 
get him." 

'*  I  shall  see  you  in  the  morning.  After  that  we  are  sure 
to  meet  again  before  very  long.     Good-night  !  " 

"  Good-night.  Thank  you,  thank  you.  Good-night,  my 
dear  !  " 

Both  of  them  were  hurried  and  fluttered  as  they  exchanged 
this  parting,  and  as  the  visitor  came  out  of  the  door.  She 
had  expected  to  meet  the  lady's  husband  approaching  it  ; 
but  the  person  in  the  gallery  was  not  he.  It  was  the  traveler 
who  had  wiped  the  wine  drops  from  his  mustache  with  the 
piece  of  bread.  When  he  heard  the  step  behind  him  he 
turned  round,  for  he  was  walking  away  in  the  dark. 

His  politeness,  which  was  extremxC,  would  not  allow  of  the 
young  lady's  lighting  herself  down  stairs,  or  going  down 
alone.  He  took  her  lamp,  held  it  so  as  to  throw  the  best 
light  on  the  stone  steps,  and  followed  her  all  the  way  to  the 
supper-room.  She  went  down,  not  easily  hiding  how  much 
she  was  inclined  to  shrink  and  tremble  ;  for  the  appearance 
of  this  traveler  was  particularly  disagreeable  to  her.  She 
had  sat  in  her  quiet  corner  before  supper,  imagining  what  he 
would  have  been  in  the  scenes  and  places  within  her  expe- 
rience, until  he  inspired  her  with  an  aversion  that  made  him 
little  less  than  terrific. 

He  followed  her  down  with  his  smiling  politeness,  followed 
her  in,  and  resumed  his  seat  in  the  best  place  on  the  hearth. 
There,  with  the  wood-fire,  which  was  beginning  to  burn  low, 
rising  and  falling  upon  him  in  the  dark  room,  he  sat  with  his 
legs  thrust  out  to  warm,  drinking  the  hot  wine  down  to  the 
lees,  with  a  monstrous  shadow  imitating  him  on  the  wall  and 
ceiling. 

The  tired  company  had  broken  up  and  all  the  rest  were 
gone  to  bed  except  the  young  lady's  father,  who  dozed  in 
his  chair  by  the  fire.  The  traveler  had  been  at  the  pains  of 
going  a  long  way  up  stairs  to  his  sleeping-room,  to  fetch  his 
pocket-flask  of  brandy.  He  told  them  so,  as  he  poured  its 
contents  into  what  was  left  of  the  wine,  and  drank  with  a 
new  relish. 

"  May  I  ask,  sir,  if  you  are  on  your  way  to  Italy  ?  " 

The  gray-haired  gentleman  had  roused  himself,  and  was 
preparing  to  withdraw.     He  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

''  I  also  !  "  said  the  traveler.  "  I  shall  hope  to  have  the 
honor    of   offering  my  compliments  in  fairer   scenes,  and 


448  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

tinder  softer  circumstances,  than  on  this  dismal  mount- 
ain." 

The  gentleman  bowed,  distantly  enough,  and  said  he  was 
obliged  to  him. 

*'  We  poor  gentlemen,  sir,"  said  the  traveler,  pulling  his 
mustache  dry  with  his  hand,  for  he  had  dipped  it  in  the  wine 
and  brandy  ;  ^*  we  poor  gentlemen  do  not  travel  like  princes, 
but  the  courtesies  and  graces  of  life  are  precious  to  us.  To 
your  health,  sir  !  " 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you." 

"  To  the  health  of  your  distinguished  family — of  the  fair 
ladies,  your  daughters  !  " 

^*Sir,  I  thank  you  again.  I  wish  you  good-night.  My 
dear,  are  our — ha — our  people  in  attendance  ?  *' 

"  They  are  close  by,  father." 

"  Permit  me  ! "  said  the  traveler,  rising  and  holding  the 
door  open,  as  the  gentleman  crossed  the  room  toward  it  with 
his  arm  drawn  through  his  daughter's.  ^'  Good  repose  !  To 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  once  more  !     To  to-morrow  !  " 

As  he  kissed  his  hand,  with  his  best  manner  and  his 
daintiest  smile,  the  young  lady  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her 
father,  and  passed  him  with  a  dread  of  touching  him. 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  insinuating  traveler,  whose  manner 
shrunk,  and  whose  voice  dropped  when  he  was  left  alone. 
*'  If  they  all  go  to  bed,  why  I  must  go.  They  are  in  a  devil 
of  a  hurry.  One  would  think  the  night  would  b^  long 
enough,  in  this  freezing  silence  and  solitude,  if  one  went  to 
bed  two  hours  hence." 

Throwing  back  his  head  in  emptying  his  glass,  he  cast  his 
eyes  upon  the  travelers'  book,  which  lay  on  the  piano,  open, 
with  pens  and  ink  beside  it,  as  if  the  night's  names  had  been 
registered  when  he  was  absent.  Taking  it  in  his  hand,  he 
read  these  entries  : 


William  Dorrit,  Esquire 
Frederick  Dorrit,  Esquire 
Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire 
Miss  Dorrit 
Miss  Amy  Dorrit 
Mrs.  General 


And  suite. 

From 

France 

to  Italy. 


Mrs.  and  Mrs.  Henry  Gowan.     From  France  to  Italy. 
To  which  he  added,  in  a  small  complicated  hand,  ending 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  449 

with  a  long  lean  flourish,  not  unlike  a  lasso  thrown  at  all  the 
rest  of  the  names  : 

Blandois.     Paris.     From  France  to  Italy. 

And  then,  with  his  nose  coming  down  over  his  mustache, 
and  his  mustache  going  up  under  his  nose,  repaired  to  his 
allotted  cell. 


CHAPTER  H. 

MRS.    GENERAL. 

It  is  indispensable  to  present  the  accomplished  lady,  who 
was  of  sufficient  importance  in  the  suite  of  the  Dorrit  family 
to  have  a  line  to  herself  in  the  travelers'  book. 

Mrs.  General  was  the  daughter  of  a  clerical  dignitary  in 
a  cathedral  town,  where  she  had  led  the  fashion  until  she 
was  as  near  forty-five  as  a  single  lady  can  be.  A  stiff  com- 
missariat officer  of  sixty,  famous  as  a  martinet,  had  then 
become  enamored  of  the  gravity  with  which  she  drove  the 
proprieties  four-in-hand  through  the  cathedral  town  society, 
and  had  solicited  to  be  taken  beside  her  on  the  box  of  the 
cool  coach  of  ceremony  to  which  that  team  was  harnessed. 
His  proposal  of  marriage  being  accepted  by  the  lady,  the 
commissary  took  his  seat  behind  the  proprieties  with  great 
decorum,  and  Mrs.  General  drove  until  the  commissary  died. 
In  the  course  of  their  united  journey,  they  ran  over  several 
people  who  came  in  the  way  of  the  proprieties  ;  but  always 
in  a  high  style,  and  with  composure. 

The  commissary  having  been  buried  with  all  the  decora- 
tions suitable  to  the  service  (the  whole  team  of  proprieties 
were  harnessed  to  his  hearse,  and  they  all  had  feathers  and 
black  velvet  housings,  with  his  coat  of  arms  in  the  corner), 
Mrs.  General  began  to  inquire  what  quantity  of  dust  and 
ashes  was  deposited  at  the  bankers*.  It  then  transpired 
that  the  commissary  had  so  far  stolen  a  march  on  Mrs. 
General  as  to  have  bought  himself  an  annuity  some  years 
before  his  marriage,and  to  have  reserved  that  circumstance,in 
mentioning,  at  the  period  of  his  proposal,  that  his  income 
was  derived  from  the  interest  of  his  money.  Mrs.  General 
consequently  found  her  means  so  much  diminished,  that,  but 
for  the  Di^rfect  regulation  of  her  mind,  she  might  have  felt 


450  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

disposed  to  question  the  accuracy  of  that  portion  of  the  late 
service  which  had  declared  that  the  commissary  could  take 
nothing  away  with  him. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  it  occurred  to  Mrs.  General  that  she 
might  "  form  the  mind,'*  and  eke  the  manners  of  some 
young  lady  of  distinction.  Or,  that  she  might  harness  the 
proprieties  to  the  carriage  of  some  rich  young  heiress  or 
widow,  and  become  at  once  the  driver  and  guard  of  such 
vehicle  through  the  social  mazes.  Mrs.  General's  commu- 
nication of  this  idea  to  her  clerical  and  commissariat  con- 
nection was  so  warmly  applauded  that,  but  for  the  lady's 
undoubted  merit,  it  might  have  appeared  as  though  they 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  her.  Testimonials  representing  Mrs. 
General  as  a  prodigy  of  piety,  learning,  virtue  and  gentility, 
were  lavishly  contributed  from  influential  quarters  ;  and  one 
venerable  archdeacon  even  shed  tears  in  recording  his  testi- 
mony to  her  perfections  (described  to  him  by  persons  on 
whom  he  could  rely),  though  he  had  never  had  the  honor 
and  moral  gratification  of  setting  eyes  on  Mrs.  General  in 
all  his  life. 

Thus  delegated  on  her  mission,  as  it  were  by  church  and 
state,  Mrs.  General,  who  had  always  occupied  high  ground, 
felt  in  a  condition  to  keep  it,  and  began  by  putting  herself 
up  at  a  very  high  figure.  An  interval  of  some  duration 
elapsed,  in  which  there  was  no  bid  for  Mrs.  General.  At 
length  a  county-widower,  with  a  daughter  of  fourteen, 
opened  negotiations  with  the  lady;  and  as  it  was  a  part  either 
of  the  native  dignity  or  of  the  artificial  policy  of  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral (but  certainly  one  or  the  other)  to  comport  herself  as 
if  she  were  much  more  sought  than  seeking,  the  widower 
pursued  Mrs.  General  until  he  prevailed  upon  her  to  form  his 
daughter's  mind  and  manners. 

The  execution  of  this  trust  occupied  Mrs.  General  about 
seven  years,  in  the  course  of  which  time  she  made  the  tour 
of  Europe,  and  saw  most  of  that  extensive  miscellany  of 
objects  which  it  is  essential  that  all  persons  of  polite  culti- 
vation should  see  with  other  people's  eyes,  and  never  with 
their  own.  When  her  charge  was  at  length  formed,  the 
marriage,  not  only  of  the  young  lady,  but  likewise  of  her 
father  the  widower,  was  resolved  on.  The  widower  then 
finding  Mrs.  General  both  inconvenient  and  expensive, 
became  of  a  sudden  almost  as  much  affected  by  her  merits  as 
the  archdeacon  had  been,  and  circulated  such  praises  of  her 
surpassing    worth,    in    all    quarters    where    he    thought  an 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  451 

opportunity  might  arise  of  transferring  the  blessing  to 
somebody  else,  that  Mrs.  General  was  a  name  more  honora- 
ble than  ever. 

The  phoenix  was  to  let,  on  this  elevated  perch,  when  Mr. 
Dorrit,  who  had  lately  succeeded  to  his  property,  mentioned 
to  his  bankers  that  he  wished  to  discover  a  lady,  well-bred, 
accomplished,  well-connected,  well  accustomed  to  good 
society,  who  was  qualified  at  once  to  complete  the  education 
of  his  daughters,  and  to  be  their  matron  and  chaperon.  Mr. 
Dorrit's  bankers,  as  the  banker  of  the  county-widower, 
instantly  said,  "  Mrs.  General." 

Pursuing  the  light  so  fortunately  hit  upon,  and  finding  the 
concurrent  testimony  of  the  whole  of  Mrs.  General's 
acquaintance  to  be  of  the  pathetic  nature  already 
recorded,  Mr.  Dorrit  took  the  trouble  of  going  down  to 
the  county  of  the  county- widower,  to  see  Mrs.  General. 
In  whom  he  found  a  lady  of  a  quality  superior  to  his  high- 
est expectations. 

"  Might  I  be  excused,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  '*  if  I  inquired — 
ha — what  remune — " 

**  Why,  indeed,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  stopping  the  word, 
*St  is  a  subject  on  which  I  prefer  to  avoid  entering.  I  have 
never  entered  on  it  with  my  friends  here;  and  I  can  not  over- 
come the  delicacy,  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  which  I  have  always 
regarded  it.  I  am  not,  as  I  hope  you  are  aware,  a  gover- 
ness— " 

"  Oh  dear  no  !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit;  **  pray,  madam,  do  not 
imagine  for  a  moment  that  I  think  so."  He  really  blushed 
to  be  suspected  of  it. 

Mrs.  General  gravely  inclined  her  head.  ''  I  can  not 
therefore  put  a  price  upon  services  which  it  is  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  render,  if  I  can  render  them  spontaneously,  but  which 
I  could  not  render  in  mere  return  for  any  consideration. 
Neither  do  I  know  how,  or  where,  to  find  a  case  parallel  to 
my  own.     It  is  peculiar." 

No  doubt.  But  how  then  (Mr.  Dorrit  not  unnaturally 
hinted)  could  the  subject  be  approached  ? 

"I  can  not  object,"  said  Mrs.  General — "though  even 
that  is  disagreeable  to  me — to  Mr.  Dorrit's  inquiring,  in  con- 
fidence, of  my  friends  here,  what  amount  they  may  have  been 
accustomed,  at  quarterly  intervals,  to  pay  to  my  credit  at 
my  bankers'." 

Mr.  Dorrit  bowed  his  acknowledgments. 

"  Permit  me  to  add,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "  that  beyond  this. 


45^  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

I  can  never  resume  the  topic.  Also  that  I  can  accept  no 
second  or  inferior  position.  If  the  honor  were  proposed  to 
me  of  becoming  known  to  Mr.  Dorrit's  family — I  think  two 
daughters  were  mentioned  ? " 

*^  Two  daughters." 

"  I  could  only  accept  it  on  terms  of  perfect  equality,  as  a 
companion,  protector,  mentor,  and  friend." 

Mr.  Dorrit,  in  spite  of  his  sense  of  his  importance,  felt  as 
if  it  would  be  quite  a  kindness  in  her  to  accept  it  on  any 
conditions.     He  almost  said  as  much. 

"  I  think,"  repeated  Mrs.  General,  "  two  daughters  were 
mentioned  ? " 

*^  Two  daughters,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit  again. 

"  It  would  therefore,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "be  necess'ary 
to  add  a  third  more  to  the  payment  (whatever  its  amount 
may  prove  to  be),  which  my  friends  here  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  make  to  my  bankers'." 

Mr.  Dorrit  lost  no  time  in  referring  the  delicate  question 
to  the  county-widower,  and  finding  that  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  pay  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  to  the  credit  of 
Mrs.  General,  arrived,  without  any  severe  strain  on  his  arith- 
metic, at  the  conclusion  that  he  himself  must  pay  four.  Mrs. 
General  being  an  article  of  that  lustrous  surface  which  sug- 
gests that  it  is  worth  any  money,  he  made  a  formal  proposal 
to  be  allowed  to  have  the  honor  and  pleasure  of  regarding 
her  as  a  member  of  his  family.  Mrs.  General  conceded  that 
high  privilege,  and  here  she  was. 

In  person,  Mrs.  General,  including  her  skirts,  which  had 
much  to  do  with  it,  was  of  a  dignified  and  imposing  appear- 
ance ;  ample,  rustling,  gravely  voluminous  ;  always  upright 
behind  the  proprieties.  She  might  have  been  taken — had 
been  taken  to  the  top  of  the  Alps  and  bottom  of  Hercula- 
neum,  without  disarranging  a  fold  in  her  dress,  or  displac- 
ing a  pin.  If  her  countenance  and  hair  had  rather  a  floury 
appearance  as  though  from  living  in  some  transcendently 
genteel  mill,  it  was  rather  because  she  was  a  chalky  creation 
altogether,  than  because  she  mended  her  complexion  with 
violet  powder,  or  had  turned  gray.  If  her  eyes  had  no  ex- 
pression, it  was  probably  because  they  had  nothing  to  ex- 
press. If  she  had  few  wrinkles,  it  was  because  her  mind  had 
never  traced  its  name  or  any  other  inscription  on  her  face. 
A  cool,  waxy,  blown-out  woman,  who  had  never  lighted  well. 

Mrs.  General  had  no  opinions.  Her  way  of  forming  a 
mind  was  to  prevent  it  from  forming  opinions.     She  had  a 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  453 

little  circular  set  of  mental  grooyes  or  rails,  on  which  she 
started  little  trains  of  other  people's  opinions,  which  never 
overtook  one  another,  and  never  got  anywhere.  Even  her 
propriety  could  not  dispute  that  there  was  impropriety  in 
the  world  ;  but  Mrs.  General's  way  of  getting  rid  of  it  was 
to  put  it  out  of  sight,  and  make  believe  that  there  was  no 
such  thing.  This  was  another  of  her  ways  of  forming  a 
mind — to  cram  all  articles  of  difficulty  into  cupboards,  lock 
them  up,  and  say  they  had  no  existence.  It  was  the  easiest 
way  and,  beyond  all  comparison,  the  properest. 

Mrs.  General  was  not  to  be  told  of  any  thing  shocking. 
Accidents,  miseries,  and  offenses,  were  never  to  be  men- 
tioned before  her.  Passion  was  to  go  to  sleep  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Mrs.  General,  and  blood  was  to  change  to  milk  and 
water.  The  little  that  was  left  in  the  world,  when  all  these 
deductions  were  made,  it  was  Mrs.  General's  province  to 
varnish.  In  that  formation  process  of  hers,  she  dipped  the 
smallest  of  brushes  into  the  largest  of  pots,  and  varnished 
the  surface  of  every  object  that  came  under  consideration. 
The  more  cracked  it  was,  the  more  Mrs.  General  varnished 
it. 

There  was  varnish  in  Mrs.  General's  voice,  varnish  in 
Mrs.  General's  touch,  an  atmosphere  of  varnish  round  Mrs. 
General's  figure.  Mrs.  General's  dreams  ought  to  have  been 
varnished — if  she  had  any — lying  asleep  in  the  arms  of  the 
good  Saint  Bernard,  with  the  feathery  snow  falling  on  his 
house-top. 


CHAPTER  IIL 

ON    THE    ROAD, 

The  bright  morning  sun  dazzled  the  eyes,  the  snow  had 
ceased,  the  mists  had  vanished,  the  mountain  air  was  so  clear 
and  light  that  the  new  sensation  of  breathing  it  was  like  the 
having  entered  on  a  new  existence.  To  help  the  delusion, 
the  solid  ground  itself  seemed  gone,  and  the  mountain,  a 
shining  waste  of  iipmense  white  heaps  and  masses,  to  be  a 
region  of  cloud  floating  between  the  blue  sky  above  and  the 
earth  far  below. 

Some  dark  specks  in  the  snow,'  like  knots  upon  a  little 
thread,  beginning  at  the  convent  door  and  winding  away 
down   the   descent  in  broken  lengths  which  were  not  yet 


454  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

pieced  together,  showed  where  the  brethren  were  at  work  in 
several  places  clearing  the  track.  Already  the  snow  had 
begun  to  be  foot-thawed  again  about  the  door.  Mules  were 
busily  brought  out,  tied  to  the  rings  in  the  wall,  and  laden  ; 
Airings  of  bells  were  buckled  on,  burdens  were  adjusted,  the 
voices  of  drivers  and  riders  sounded  musically.  Some  of  the 
earliest  had  even  already  resumed  their  journey  ;  and,  both 
on  the  level  summit  by  the  dark  water  near  the  convent,  and 
on  the  downward  way  of  yesterday's  ascent,  little  moving 
figures  of  men  and  mules,  reduced  to  miniatures  by  the 
immensity  around,  went  with  a  clear  tinkling  of  bells  and  a 
pleasant  harmony  of  tongues. 

In  the  supper-room  of  last  night,  a  new  fire  piled  upon 
the  feathery  ashes  of  the  old  one,  shone  upon  a  homely 
breakfast  of  loaves,  butter,  and  milk.  It  also  shone  on  the 
courier  of  the  Dorrit  family,  making  tea  for  his  party  from  a 
supply  he  had  brought  up  with  him,  together  with  several 
other  small  stores  which  were  chiefly  laid  in  for  the  use  of 
the  strong  body  of  inconvenience.  Mr.  Gowan,  and  Blandois 
of  Paris,  had  already  breakfasted,  and  were  w^alking  up  and 
down  by  the  lake,  smoking  their  cigars. 

^'  Gowan,  eh  ?  "  muttered  Tip,  otherwise  Edward  Dorrit, 
Esquire,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  when  the  courier 
had  left  them  to  breakfast.  "  Then  Gowan  is  the  name  of 
a  puppy,  that's  all  I  have  got  to  say  !  If  it  was  worth  my 
while,  I'd  pull  his  nose.  But  it  isn't  worth  my  while — fortu- 
nately for  him.  How's  his  wife.  Amy  ?  I  suppose  you  know. 
You  generally  know  things  of  that  sort." 

''  She  is  better,  Edward.  But  they  are  not  going  to- 
day." 

'^  Oh  !  They  are  not  going  to-day  !  Fortunately  for  that 
fellow  too,"  said  Tip,  ^'or  he  and  I  might  have  come  into 
collision." 

*'  It  is  thought  better  here  that  she  should  lie  quiet  to-day, 
and  not  be  fatigued  and  shaken  by  the  ride  down  until 
to  morrow." 

"  With  all  my  heart.  But  you  talk  as  if  you  had  been 
nursing  her.  You  haven't  been  relapsing  into  (Mrs.  General 
is  not  here)  old  habits,  have  you,  Amy  ? " 

He  asked  her  the  question  with  a  sly  glance  of  observa- 
tion at  Miss  Fanny,  and  at  his  father  too. 

**  I  have  only  been  in  to  ask  her  if  I  could  do  any  thing 
for  her.  Tip,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

^''  You  needn't  call  mc   Tip,   Amy  child,"   returned  that 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  455 

young  gentleman  with  a  frown  ;  *'  because  that's  •  n  old 
habit,  and  one  you  may  as  well  lay  aside." 

*'  I  didn't  mean  to  say  so,  Edward  dear.  I  forgot.  It 
was  so  natural  once,  that  it  seemed  at  the  moment  the  right 
word." 

^^  Oh  yes  !  "  Miss  Fanny  struck  in.  "  Natural,  and  right 
word,  and  once,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  !  Nonsense,  you  little 
thing  !  I  know  perfectly  well  why  you  have  been  taking  such 
an  interest  in  this  Mrs.  Gowan.     You  can't  blind  7ney 

"  I  will  not  try  to,  Fanny.     Don't  be  angry." 

"  Oh  !  angry  !  "  returned  that  young  lady  with  a  flounce. 
"  I  have  no  patience  "  (which  indeed  was  the  truth). 

*'  Pray,  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  raising  his  eyebrows, 
*'  what  do  you  mean  ?     Explain  yourself." 

"  Oh  !  Never  mind,  pa,"  replied  Miss  Fanny,  "  it's  no 
great  matter.  Amy  will  understand  me.  She  knew,  or  knew 
of,  this  Mrs.  Gowan  before  yesterday,  and  she  may  as  w^ell 
admit  that  she  did." 

"  My  child,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  turning  to  his  younger 
daughter,  "  has  your  sister — any — ha — authority  for  this 
curious  statement  ? " 

"  However  meek  we  are,"  Miss  Fanny  struck  in  before 
she  could  answer,  "we  don't  go  creeping  into  people's  rooms 
on  the  tops  of  cold  mountains,  and  sitting  perishing  in  the 
frost  with  people,  unless  we  know  something  about  them 
beforehand.  It's  not  very  hard  to  divine  whose  friend  Mrs. 
Gowan  is." 

"  Whose  friend  ?  "  inquired  her  father. 

"  Pa,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  returned  Miss  Fanny,  who  had 
by  this  time  succeeded  in  goading  herself  into  a  state  of 
much  ill-usage  and  grievance,  which  she  was  often  at  great 
pains  to  do  :  "'  that  I  believe  her  to  be  a  friend  of  that  very 
objectionable  and  unpleasant  person,  who,  wath  a  total  ab- 
sence of  all  delicacy,  which  our  experience  might  have  led 
us  to  expect  from  him,  insulted  us  and  outraged  our  feelings 
in  so  public  and  willful  a  manner,  on  an  occasion  to  which 
it  is  understood  among  us  that  we  will  not  more  pointedly 
allude." 

"  Amy,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  tempering  a  bland 
severity  with  a  dignified  affection,  "  is  this  the  case  ?  " 

Little  Dorrit  mildly  answ^ered,  yes,  it  was. 

"  Yes,  it  is  !  "  cried  Miss  Fanny.  "  Of  course  !  I  said  so  ! 
And  now,  pa,  I  do  declare  once  for  aM,"  this  young  lady  was 
in  the  habit  of  declaring   tlie  same  thing   once  for  all   every 


456  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

day  of  her  life,  and  even  several  times  in  a  day,  "that  this  is 
shameful  !  I  do  declare  once  for  all  that  it  ought  to  be  put 
a  stop  to.  Is  it  not  enough  that  we  have  gone  through  what 
is  only  known  to  ourselves,  but  are  we  to  have  it  thrown  in 
our  faces,  perseveringly  and  systematically,  by  the  very  per- 
son who  should  spare  our  feelings  most  ?  Are  we  to  be  ex- 
posed to  this  unnatural  conduct  every  moment  of  our  lives  ? 
Are  we  never  to  be  permitted  to  forget !  I  say  again,  it  is 
absolutely  infamous  !  " 

"  Well,  Amy,"  observed  her  brother,  shaking  his  head, 
"  you  know  I  stand  by  you  whenever  I  can,  and  on  most  oc- 
casions. But  I  must  say,  that  upon  my  soul  I  do  consider 
it  rather  an  unaccountable  mode  of  showing  your  sisterly 
affection,  that  you  should  back  up  a  man  who  treated  me  in 
the  most  ungentlemanly  way  in  which  one  man  can  treat  an- 
other. And  who,"  he  added  convincingly,  ^^  must  be  a  low- 
minded  thief,  you  know,  or  he  never  could  have  conducted 
himself  as  he  did." 

"  And  see,"  said  Miss  Fanny,  "  see  what  is  involved  in 
this  !  Can  we  ever  hope  to  be  respected  by  our  servants  ? 
Never.  Here  are  our  two  women,  and  pa's  valet,  and  a 
footman,  and  a  courier,  and  all  sorts  of  dependents,  and  yet 
in  the  midst  of  these,  we  are  to  have  one  of  ourselves  rush- 
ing about  with  tumblers  of  cold  water,  like  a  menial !  Why, 
a  policeman,"  said  Miss  Fanny,  "  if  a  beggar  had  a  fit  in  the 
street,  could  but  go  plunging  about  with  tumblers,  as  this 
very  Amy  did  in  this  very  room  before  our  very  eyes  last 
night  !  " 

"  I  don't  so  much  mind  that,  once  in  a  way,*'  remarked 
Mr.  Edward  ;  ^'  but  your  Clennam,  as  he  thinks  proper  to 
call  himself,  is  another  thing." 

"  He  is  a  part  of  the  same  thing,"  returned  Miss  Fanny, 
"  and  of  a  piece  with  all  the  rest.  He  obtruded  himself  upon 
us  in  the  first  instance.  We  never  wanted  him.  I  always 
showed  him,  for  one,  that  I  could  have  dispensed  with  his 
company  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  He  then  commits  that 
gross  outrage  upon  our  feelings,  which  he  never  could  or 
would  have  committed  but  for  the  delight  he  took  in  expos- 
ing us;  and  then  we  are  to  be  demeaned  for  the  service  of 
his  friends  !  Why,  I  don't  wonder  at  this  Mr.  Gowan's  con- 
duct toward  you.  What  else  was  to  be  expected  when  he 
was  enjoying  our  past  misfortunes — gloating  over  them  at  the 
moment  ! " 

*'  Father — Edward-— no    indeed  !  "  pleaded  Little   Dorrit. 


1.TTTLE  DORRIT.  457 

**  Neither  Mr.  nor  Mrs.  Gowan  had  ever  heard  our  name. 
They  were,  and  they  are,  quite  ignorant  of  our  history." 

*^  So  much  the  worse,"  retorted  Fanny,  determined  not  to 
admit  any  thing  in  extenuation,  "  for  then  you  have  no  ex- 
cuse. If  they  had  known  about  us,  you  might  have  felt 
yourself  called  upon  to  conciliate  them.  That  would  have 
been  a  weak  and  ridiculous  mistake,  but  I  can  respect  a 
mistake,  whereas  I  can't  respect  a  willful  and  deliberate  abas- 
ing of  those  who  should  be  nearest  and  dearest  to  us.  No. 
I  can't  respect  that.     I  can  do  nothing  but  denounce  that." 

"  I  never  offend  you  willfully,  Fanny,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
*'  though  you  are  so  hard  with  me." 

"Then  you  should  be  more  careful.  Amy,"  returned  her 
sister.  "  If  you  do  such  things  by  accident,  you  should  be 
more  careful.  If  I  happened  to  have  been  born  in  a  peculiar 
place,  and  under  peculiar  circumstances  that  blunted  my 
knowledge  of  propriety,  I  fancy  I  should  think  myself  bound 
to  consider  at  every  step,  *  Am  I  going,  ignorantly,  to  com- 
promise any  near  and  dear  relations  ? '  That  is  what  I  fancy 
/  should  do,  if  it  was  my  case." 

Mr.  Dorrit  now  interposed,  at  once  to  stop  these  painful 
subjects  by  his  authority,  and  to  point  their  moral  by  his 
wisdom. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  to  his  younger  daughter,  "  I  beg  you 
to — ha — to  say  no  more.  Your  sister  Fanny  expresses  herself 
strongly,  but  not  without  considerable  reason.  You  have  now 
a — hum — a  great  position  to  support.  That  great  position 
is  not  occupied  by  yourself  alone,  but  by — ha — by  me,  and 
— ha  hum — by  us.  Us.  Now,  it  is  incumbent  upon  all  peo- 
ple in  an  exalted  position,  but  it  is  particularly  so  on  this 
family,  for  reasons  which  I — ha — will  not  dwell  upon,  to 
make  themselves  respected.  To  be  vigilant  in  making  them- 
selves respected.  Dependents  to  respect  us,  must  be — ha — 
kept  at  a  distance  and — hum — kept  down.  Down.  There- 
fore, your  not  exposing  yourself  to  the  remarks  of  our  attend- 
ants, by  appearing  to  have  at  any  time  dispensed  with  their 
services  and  performed  them  for  yourself,  is — ha — highly 
important." 

"  Why,  who  can  doubt  it,"  cried  Miss  Fanny.  "  It's  the 
essence  of  every  thing." 

"  Fanny,"  returned  her  father,  grandiloquently,  "give  me 
leave,  my  dear.  We  then  come  to — ha — to  Mr.  Clennam. 
I  am  free  to  say  that  I  do  not,  Amy,  share  your  sister's  senti- 
ments— that  is  to  say  altogether — hum — altogether — in  refer- 


458  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ence  to  Mr.  Clennam.  I  am  content  to  regard  that  indi- 
vidual in  the  light  of — ha — generally — a  well-behaved  per- 
son. Hum.  A  well-behaved  person.  Nor  will  I  inquire 
whether  Mr.  Clennam  did,  at  any  time,  obtrude  himself  on — 
ha — my  society.  He  knew  my  society  to  be — hum — sought, 
and  his  plea  might  be  that  he  regarded  me  in  the  light  of  a 
public  character.  But  there  were  circumstances  attending 
my — ha — slight  knowledge  of  Mr.  Clennam  (it  was  very 
slight),  which,"  here  Mr.  Dorrit  became  extremely  grave  and 
impressive,  "  would  render  it  highly  indelicate  in  Mr.  Clen- 
nam to — ha — to  seek  to  renew  communication  with  me  or 
with  any  member  of  my  family  under  existing  circumstances. 
If  Mr.  Clennam  has  sufficient  delicacy  to  perceive  the  im- 
propriety of  any  such  attempt,  I  am  bound  as  a  responsible 
gentleman  to — ha — defer  to  that  delicacy  on  his  part.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  Mr.  Clennam  has  not  that  delicacy,  I  can 
not  for  a  moment — ha — hold  any  correspondence  with  so-^ 
hum — coarse  a  mind.  In  eithej  case,  it  would  appear  that 
Mr.  Clennam  is  put  altogether  out  of  the  question,  and  that 
we  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  or  he  with  us.  Ha — Mrs. 
General  !  " 

The  entrance  of  the  lady  whom  he  announced,  to  take  her 
place  at  the  breakfast-table,  terminated  the  discussion. 
Shortly  afterward,  the  courier  announced  that  the  valet,  and 
the  footman,  and  the  two  maids,  and  the  four  guides,  and  the 
fourteen  mules,  were  in  readiness;  so  the  breakfast  party 
went  out  to  the  convent  door  to  join  the  cavalcade. 

Mr.  Gowan  stood  aloof  with  his  cigar  and  pencil,  but  Mr. 
Blandois  was  on  the  spot  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  ladies. 
When  he  gallantly  pulled  off  his  slouched  hat  to  Little  Dor- 
rit, she  thought  he  had  even  a  more  sinister  look  standing 
swart  and  cloaked  in  the  snow,  than  he  had  in  the  fire-light 
over-night.  But,  as  both  her  father  and  her  sister  received 
his  homage  with  some  favor,  she  refrained  from  expressing 
any  distrust  of  him,  lest  it  should  prove  to  be  a  new  blemish 
derived  from  her  prison  birth. 

Nevertheless,  as  they  wound  down  the  rugged  way  while 
the  convent  was  yet  in  sight,  she  more  than  once  looked 
round,  and  descried  Mr.  Blandois,  backed  by  the  convent 
smoke  which  rose  straight  and  high  from  the  chimneys  in  a 
golden  film,  always  standing  on  one  jutting  point  looking 
down  after  them.  Long  after  he  was  a  mere  black  stick  in 
the  snow,  she  felt  as  though  she  could  yet  see  that  smile  of 
his,  that  high  nose,  and  those  eyes  that  were  too  near  it. 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  459 

And  even  after  that,  when  the  convent  was  gone  and  some 
light  anorning  clouds  veiled  the  pass  below  it,  the  ghastly- 
skeleton  arms  by  the  wayside  seemed  to  be  all  pointing  up 
at  him. 

More  treacherous  than  snow,  perhaps,  colder  at  heart,  and 
harder  to  melt,  Blandois  of  Paris  by  degrees  passed  out  of 
her  mind,  as  they  came  down  into  the  softer  regions.  Again 
the  sun  was  warm,  again  the  streams  descending  from 
glaciers  and  snowy  caverns  were  refreshing  to  drink  at,  again 
they  came  among  the  pine-trees,  the  rocky  rivulets,  the  ver- 
dant heights  and  dales,  the  wooden  chalets  and  rough  zig- 
zag fences  of  Swiss  country.  Sometimes  the  way  so  widened 
that  she  and  her  father  could  ride  abreast.  And  then  to  look 
at  him,  handsomely  clothed  in  his  fur  and  broadcloths,  rich, 
free,  numerously  served  and  attended,  his  eyes  roving  far 
away  among  the  glories  of  the  landscape,  no  miserable  screen 
before  them  to  darken  his  sight  and  cast  its  shadow  on  him, 
was  enough. 

Her  uncle  was  so  far  rescued  from  that  shadow  of  old,  that 
he  wore  the  clothes  they  gave  him,  and  performed  some  abso- 
lutions as  a  sacrifice  to  the  family  credit,  and  went  where 
he  was  taken,  with  a  certain  patient  animal  enjoyment,  which 
seemed  to  express  that  the  air  and  change  did  him  good.  In 
all  other  respects,  save  one,  he  shone  with  no  light  but  such 
as  was  reflected  from  his  brother.  His  brother's  greatness, 
wealth,  freedom,  and  grandeur,  pleased  him  without  any  ref- 
erence to  himself.  Silent  and  retiring,  he  had  no  use  for 
speech  when  he  could  hear  his  brother  speak  ;  no  desire  to 
be  waited  on,  so  that  the  servants  devoted  themselves  to  his 
brother.  The  only  noticeable  change  he  originated  in  him- 
self, was  an  alteration  in  his  manner  to  his  younger  niece. 
Every  day  it  refined  more  and  more  into  a  marked  respect, 
very  rarely  shown  by  age  to  youth,  and  still  more  rarely  sus- 
ceptible, one  would  have  said,  of  the  fitness  with  which  he 
invested  it.  On  those  occasions  when  Miss  Fanny  did  de- 
clare once  for  all,  he  would  take  next  opportunity  of  baring 
his  gray  head  before  his  younger  niece,  and  of  helping  her  to 
alight,  or  handing  her  to  the  carriage,  or  showing  her  any 
other  attention,  with  the  profoundest  deference.  Yet  it  never 
appeared  misplaced  or  forced,  being  always  heartily  simple, 
spontaneous,  and  genuine.  Neither  would  he  ever  consent, 
even  at  his  brother's  request,  to  be  helped  to  any  place  before 
her,  or  to  take  precedence  of  her  in  any  thing.  So  jealous 
was  he  of  her  being  respected,  that  on  this  very  journey  down 


46o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

from  the  Great  Saint  Bernard  he  took  sudden  and  violent 
umbrage  at  the  footman's  being  remiss  to  hold  her  stirrup, 
though  standing  near  when  she  dismounted  ;  and  unspeak- 
ably astonished  the  whole  retinue  by  charging  at  him  on  a 
hard-headed  mule,  riding  him  into  a  corner,  and  threaten- 
ing to  trample  him  to  death. 

They  were  a  goodly  company,  and  the  innkeepers  all  but 
worshiped  them.  Wherever  they  went,  their  importance 
preceded  them  in  the  person  of  the  courier  riding  before,  to 
see  that  the  rooms  of  state  were  ready.  He  was  the  herald 
of  the  family  procession.  The  great  traveling-carriage  came 
next  :  containing,  inside,  Mr.  Dorrit,  Miss  Dorrit,  Miss  Amy 
Dorrit,  and  Mrs.  General  ;  outside,  some  of  the  retainers, 
and  (in  fine  weather)  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  for  whom  the 
box  was  reserved.  Then  came  the  chariot  containing  Fred- 
erick Dorrit,  Esquire,  and  an  empty  place  occupied  by  Ed- 
ward Dorrit,  Esquire,  in  wet  weather.  Then  came  the  four- 
gon  with  the  rest  of  the  retainers,  the  heavy  baggage,  and  as 
much  as  it  could  carry  of  the  mud  and  dust  which  the  other 
vehicles  left  behind. 

These  equipages  adorned  the  yard  of  the  hotel  at  Martig- 
ny,  on  the  return  of  the  family  from  their  mountain  excur- 
sion. Other  vehicles  were  there,  much  company  being  on 
the  road,  from  the  patched  Italian  vettura—  like  the  body 
of  a  swing  from  an  English  fair  put  upon  a  wooden  tray  on 
wheels,  and  having  another  wooden  tray  without  wheels  put 
atop  of  it — to  the  trim  English  carriage.  But  there  was  an- 
other adornment  of  the  hotel  which  Mr.  Dorrit  had  not  bar- 
gained for.  Two  strange  travelers  embellished  one  of  his 
rooms. 

The  innkeeper,  hat  in  hand  in  the  yard,  swore  to  the 
courier  that  he  was  blighted,  that  he  was  desolated,  that  he 
was  profoundly  afflicted,  that  he  was  the  most  miserable  and 
unfortunate  of  beasts,  that  he  had  the  head  of  a  wooden  pig. 
He  ought  never  to  have  made  the  concession,  he  said,  but 
the  very  genteel  lady  had  so  passionately  prayed  him  for  the 
accommodation  of  that  room  to  dine  in,  only  for  a  little  half- 
hour,  that  he  had  been  vanquished.  The  little  half-hour  was 
expired,  the  lady  and  gentleman  were  taking  their  little  des- 
sert and  half  cup  of  coffee,  the  note  was  paid,  the  horses 
were  ordered,  they  would  depart  immediately  ;  but,  owing  to 
an  unhappy  destiny  and  the  curse  of  heaven,  they  were  not 
yet  gone. 

Nothing  could  exceed    Mr.   Dorrit's  indignation,  as  he 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  461 

turned  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase  on  hearing  these  apologies. 
He  felt  that  the  family  dignity  was  struck  at,  by  an  assassin's 
hand.  He  had  a  sense  of  his  dignity,  which  was  of  the  most 
exquisite  nature.  He  could  detect  a  design  upon  it  when 
nobody  else  had  any  perception  of  the  fact.  His  life  was 
made  an  agony  by  the  number  of  fine  scalpels  that  he  felt  to 
be  incessantly  engaged  in  dissecting  his  dignity. 

"  Is  it  possible,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  reddening  excessive- 
ly, '^  that  you  have — ha — had  the  audacity  to  place  one  of 
my  rooms  at  the  disposition  of  any  other  person  ?  " 

Thousands  of  pardons  !  It  was  the  host's  profound  mis- 
fortune to  have  been  overcome  by  that  too  genteel  lady. 
He  besought  monseigneur  not  to  enrage  himself.  He  threw 
himself  on  monseigneur  for  clemency.  If  monseigneur  would 
have  the  distinguished  goodness  to  occupy  the  other  salon 
especially  reserved  for  him,  for  but  five  minutes,  all  would 
go  well. 

^'  No,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  *'  I  will  not  occupy  any  salon. 
I  will  leave  your  house  without  eating  or  drinking,  or  setting 
foot  in  it.  How  do  you  dare  to  act  like  this  ?  Who  am  I 
that  you — ha — separate  me  from  oth^r  gentlemen  ?  " 

Alas  !  The  host  called  all  the  universe  to  witness  that 
monseigneur  was  the  most  amiable  of  the  whole  body  of 
nobility,  the  most  important,  the  most  estimable,  the  most 
honored.  If  he  separated  monseigneur  from  others,  it  was 
only  because  he  was  more  distinguished,  more  cherished, 
more  generous,  more  renowned. 

"  Don't  tell  me  so,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  a  mighty 
heat.  "  You  have  affronted  me.  You  have  heaped  in- 
sults upon  me.     How  dare  you.     Explain  yourself." 

Ah,  just  heaven,  then,  how  could  the  host  explain  himself 
when  he  had  nothing  more  to  explain  ;  when  he  had  only  to 
apologize,  and  confide  himself  to  the  so  well-known  magna- 
nimity of  monseigneur  ! 

*' I  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  panting  with  anger, 
^'  that  you  separate  me — ha — from  other  gentlemen;  that  you 
make  distinctions  between  me  and  other  gentlemen  of  for- 
tune and  station.  I  demand  of  you,  why  ?  I  wish  to  know 
on — ha — what  authority,  on  whose  authority.  Reply,  sir. 
Explain.     Answer  why." 

Permit  the  landlord  humbly  to  submit  to  monsieur  the 
courier  then,  that  monseigneur,  ordinarily  so  gracious,  en- 
raged himself  without  cause.  There  was  no  why.  Monsieur 
the  courier  would  represent  to  monseigneur.  that  he  deceived 


462  LITTLE  DORRTr. 

himself  in  suspecting  that  there  was  any  why,  but  tiie  why 
his  devoted  servant  had  already  had  the  honor  to  present  to 
him.     The  very  genteel  lady 

"  Silence  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dorrit.  *'  Hold  your  tongue  !  I 
will  hear  no  more  of  the  very  genteel  lady;  I  will  hear  no 
more  of  you.  Look  at  this  family — my  family — a  family 
more  genteel  than  any  lady.  You  have  treated  this  family  with 
disrespect;  you  have  been  insolent  to  this  family.  I'll  ruin 
you.  Ha — send  for  the  horses,  pack  the  carriages,  I'll  not 
set  foot  in  this  man's  house  again  !  '* 

No  one  had  interfered  in  the  dispute,  which  was  beyond 
the  French  colloquial  powers  of  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  and 
scarcely  within  the  province  of  the  ladies.  Miss  Fanny, 
however,  now  supported  her  father  with  great  bitterness  ; 
declaring  in  her  native  tongue,  that  it  was  quite  clear  there 
was  something  special  in  this  man's  impertinence  ;  and  that 
she  considered  it  important  that  he  should  be,  by  some 
means,  forced  to  give  up  his  authority  for  making  distinction 
between  that  family  and  other  wealthy  families.  What  the 
reasons  of  his  presumption  could  be,  she  was  at  a  loss  to  im- 
agine ;  but  reasons  he  rtiust  have,  and  they  ought  to  be  torn 
from  him. 

All  the  guides,  mule-drivers  and  idlers  in  the  yard,  had 
made  themselves  parties  to  the  angry  conference,  and  were 
much  impressed  by  the  courier's  now  bestirring  himself  to 
get  the  carriages  out.  With  the  aid  of  some  dozen  people  to 
each  wheel,  this  was  done  at  a  great  cost  of  noise  ;  and  then 
the  loading  was  proceeded  with,  pending  the  arrival  of  the 
horses  from  the  post-house. 

But  the  very  genteel  lady's  English  chariot  being  already 
horsed  and  at  the  inn  door,  the  landlord  had  slipped  up  stairs 
to  represent  his  hard  case.  This  was  notified  to  the  yard  by 
his  now  coming  down  the  staircase  in  attendance  on  the  gen- 
tleman and  the  lady,  and  by  his  pointing  out  the  offended 
majesty  of  Mr.  Dorrit  to  them  with  a  significant  motion  of 
his  hand. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  gentleman,  detaching  him- 
self from  the  lady  and  coming  forward.  "  I  am  a  man  of 
few  words  and  a  bad  hand  at  an  explanation — but  lady  here 
is  extremely  anxious  that  there  should  be  no  row.  Lady — a 
mother  of  mine,  in  point  of  fact — wishes  me  to  say  that  she 
hopes  no  row." 

Mr.  Dorrit,  still  panting  under  his  injury,  saluted  the  gentle- 
man, and  saluted  the  lady,  in  a  distant,  final  and  invincible 
ma.uner. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  463 

**  No,  but  really — here  old  feller  ;  you  !  '*  This  was  the 
gentleman's  way  of  appealing  to  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  on 
whom  he  pounced  as  a  great  and  providential  relief.  "  Let 
you  and  I  try  to  make  this  all  right.  Lady  so  very  much  wishes 
no  row." 

Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  led  a  little  apart  by  the  button, 
assumed  a  diplomatic  expression  of  countenance  in  replying, 
"  Why  you  must  confess,  that  when  you  bespeak  a  lot  of 
rooms  before  hand,  and  they  belong  to  you,  it's  not  pleasant 
to  find  other  people  in  'em." 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  "  I  know  it  isn't.  I  admit  it.  Still, 
let  you  and  I  try  to  make  it  all  right,  and  avoid  row.  The 
fault  is  not  this  chap's  at  all,  but  my  mother's.  Being  a  re- 
markably fine  woman  with  no  biggodd  nonsense  about  her — 
well  educated,  too — she  was  too  many  for  this  chap.  Regu- 
larly pocketed  him," 

"  If  that's  the  case "  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  began. 

"  Assure  you  'pon  my  soul  'tis  the  case.  Consequently," 
said  the  other  gentleman,  retiring  on  his  main  position,  **  why 
row  ?  " 

"  Edmund,"  said  the  lady  from  the  doorway,  "I  hope  you 
have  explained,  or  are  explaining,  to  the  satisfaction  of 
this  gentleman  and  his  family  that  the  civil  landlord  is  not 
to  blame  ?  " 

"  Assure  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Edmund,  "  perfectly  paral- 
yzing myself  with  trying  it  on."  He  then  looked  steadfastly 
at  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  for  some  seconds,  and  suddenly 
added,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  *'  Old  feller  !  Is  it  all 
right  !  " 

"'  I  don't  know  after  all,"  said  the  lady,  gracefully  advanc- 
ing a  step  or  two  toward  Mr.  Dorrit,  ^'  but  that  I  had  better 
say  myself,  at  once,  that  I  assured  this  good  man  I  took  all 
the  consequences  on  myself  of  occupying  one  of  a  stranger's 
suite  of  rooms  during  his  absence,  for  just  as  much  (or  as 
little)  time  as  I  could  dine  in.  I  had  no  idea  the  rightful 
owner  would  come  back  so  soon,  nor  had  I  any  idea  that  he 
had  come  back,  or  I  should  have  hastened  to  make  restora- 
tion of  my  ill-gotten  chamber,  and  to  have  offered  my  expla- 
nation and  apology.     I  trust  in  saying  this " 

For  a  moment  the  lady,  with  a  glass  at  her  eye,  stood 
transfixed  and  speechless  before  the  two  Miss  Dorrits.  At 
the  same  moment,  Miss  Fanny,  in  the  foreground  of  a  grand 
pictorial  composition,  formed  by  the  family,  the  family  equi- 
pages, and  the  family  servants,   held   her  sister  tight   under 


464  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

one  arm  to  detain  her  on  the  spot,  and  with  the  other  arm 
fanned  herself  with  a  distinguished  air,  and  negligently 
surveyed  the  lady  from  head  to  foot. 

The  lady,  recovering  herself  quickly — for  it  was  Mrs. 
Merdle  and  she  was  not  easily  dashed — went  on  to  add  that 
she  trusted,  in  saying  this,  she  apologized  for  her  boldness, 
and  restored  this  well-behaved  landlord  to  the  favor  that 
was  so  very  valuable  to  him.  Mr.  Dorrit,  on  the  altar  of 
whose  dignity  all  this  was  incense,  made  a  gracious  reply  ; 
and  said  that  his  people  should — ha — countermand  his 
horses,  and  he  would — hum — overlook  what  he  had  at  first 
supposed  to  be  an  affront,  but  now  regarded  as  an  honor. 
Upon  this,  the  bosom  bent  to  him  ;  and  its  owner,  with  a 
wonderful  command  of  feature,  addressed  a  winning  smile 
of  adieu  to  the  two  sisters,  as  young  ladies  of  fortune  in  whose 
favor  she  was  much  prepossessed,  and  whom  she  had  never 
had  the  gratification  of  seeing  before. 

Not  so,  however,  Mr.  Sparkler.  This  gentleman,  becom- 
ing transfixed  at  the  same  moment  as  his  lady-mother,  could 
not  by  any  means  unfix  himself  again,  but  stood  stiffly  star- 
ing at  the  whole  composition  with  Miss  Fanny  in  the  fore- 
ground. On  his  mother's  saying,  "  Edmund,  we  are  quite 
ready  ;  will  you  give  me  your  arm?"  he  seemed,  by  the 
motion  of  his  lips,  to.  reply  with  some  remark  comprehend- 
ing the  form  of  words  in  which  his  shining  talents  found 
the  most  frequent  utterance,  but  he  relaxed  no  muscle.  So 
fixed  was  his  figure,  that  it  would  have  been  matter  of  some 
difficulty  to  bend  him  sufficiently  to  get  him  in  the  carriage 
door,  if  he  had  not  received  the  timely  assistance  of  a 
maternal  pull  from  within.  He  was  no  sooner  within,  than 
the  pad  of  the  little  window  in  the  back  of  the  chariot  disap- 
peared, and  his  eye  usurped  its  place.  There  it  remained  as 
long  as  so  small  an  object  was  discernible,  and  probably, 
much  longer,  staring  (as  though  something  inexpressibly 
surprising  should  happen  to  a  codfish)  like  an  ill-executed 
eye  in  a  large  socket. 

This  encounter  was  so  highly  agreeable  to  Miss  Fanny, 
and  gave  her  so  much  to  think  of  with  triumph  afterward, 
that  it  softened  her  asperities  exceedingly.  When  the  pro- 
cession was  again  in  motion  next  day,  she  occupied  her  place 
in  it  with  a  new  gayety  ;  and  showed  such  a  flow  of  spirits 
indeed,  that  Mrs.  General  looked  rather  surprised. 

Little  Dorrit  was  glad  to  be  found  no  fault  with,  and  to 
see  that  Fanny  was  pleased  ;  but  her  part  in  the  procession 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  465 

was  a  musing  part,  and  a  quiet  one.  Sitting  opposite  her 
father  in  the  traveling-carriage,  and  recaUing  the  old 
Marshalsea  room,  her  present  existence  was  a  dream.  All 
that  she  saw  was  new  and  wonderful,  but  it  was  not  real  ;  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  those  visions  of  mountains  and  pic- 
turesque countries  might  melt  away  at  any  moment,  and  the 
carriage,  turning  some  abrupt  corner,  bring  it  with  a  jolt  at 
the  old  Marshalsea  gate. 

To  have  no  work  to  do  was  strange,  but  not  half  so  strange 
as  having  glided  into  a  corner  where  she  had  no  one  to 
think  for,  nothing  to  plan  and  contrive,  no  cares  of  others 
to  load  herself  with.  Strange  as  that  was,  it  was  far 
stranger  yet  to  find  a  space  between  herself  and  her  father 
where  others  occupied  themselves  in  taking  care  of  him, 
and  where  she  was  never  expected  to  be.  At  first,  this 
was  so  much  more  unlike  her  old  experience  than  even 
the  mountains  themselves,  that  she  had  been  unable  to 
resign  herself  to  it,  and  had  tried  to  retain  her  old  place 
about  him.  But  he  had  spoken  to  her  alone,  and  had 
said  that  people — ha — people  in  an  exalted  position,  my 
dear,  must  scrupulously  exact  respect  from  their  depend- 
ents ;  and  that  for  her,  his  daughter.  Miss  Amy  Dorrit, 
of  the  sole  remaining  branch  of  the  Dorrits  of  Dorsetshire  to 
be  known  to — hum — to  occupy  herself  in  fulfilling  the  func- 
tions of — ha — hum — a  valet,  would  be  incompatible  with  that 
respect.  Therefore,  my  dear,  he — ha — he  laid  his  parental 
injunctions  upon  her,  to  remember  that  she  was  a  lady,  who 
had  now  to  conduct  herself  with — hum — a  proper  pride,  and 
to  preserve  the  rank  of  a  lady;  and  consequently  he 
requested  her  to  abstain  from  doing  what  would  occasion — 
ha — unpleasant  and  derogatory  remarks.  She  had  obeyed 
without  a  murmur.  Thus  it  had  been  brought  about  that 
she  now  sat  in  her  corner  of  the  luxurious  carriage  with  her 
little  patient  hands  folded  before  her,  quite  displaced  even 
from  the  last  point  of  the  old  standing  ground  in  life  on 
which  her  feet  had  lingered. 

It  was  from  this  position  that  all  she  saw  appeared  unreal; 
the  more  surprising  the  scenes,  the  more  they  resembled 
the  unreality  of  her  own  inner  life  as  she  went  through  its 
vacant  places  all  day  long.  The  gorges  of  the  Simplon,  its 
enormous  depths  and  thundering  waterfalls,  the  wonderful 
road,  the  points  of  danger  where  a  loose  wheel  or  a  faltering 
horse  would  have  been  destruction,  the  descent  into  Italy,  the 
opening  of  that  beautiful  land  as  the  rugged  mountain-chasm 


466  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

widened  and  let  them  out  from  a  gloomy  and  dark  imprison- 
ment— all  a  dream — only  the  old  mean  Marshalsea  a  reality. 
Nay,  even  the  old  mean  Marshalsea  was  shaken  to  its  founda- 
tions, when  she  pictured  it  without  her  father.  She  could 
scarcely  believe  that  the  prisoners  were  still  lingering  in  the 
close  yard,  that  the  mean  rooms  were  still  every  one  tenanted, 
and  that  the  turnkey  still  stood  in  the  lodge  letting  people  in 
and  out,  all  just  as  she  well  knew  it  to  be. 

With  a  remembrance  of  her  father's  old  life  in  prison 
hanging  about  her  like  the  burden  of  a  sorrowful  tune, 
Little  Dorrit  would  wake  from  a  dream  of  her  birth-place 
into  a  whole  day's  dream.  The  painted  room  in  which  she 
awoke,  often  a  humbled  state-chamber  in  a  dilapidated 
palace,  would  begin  it;  with  its  wild  red  autumnal  vine- 
leaves  overhanging  the  glass,  its  orange-trees  on  the  cracked 
white  terrace  outside  the  window,  a  group  of  monks  and  peas- 
ants in  the  little  street  below,  misery  and  magnificence 
wrestling  with  each  other  upon  every  rood  of  ground  in  the 
prospect,  no  matter  how  widely  diversified,  and  misery  throw- 
ing magnificence  with  the  strength  of  fate.  To  this  would 
succeed  a  labyrinth  of  bare  passages  and  pillared  galleries, 
with  the  family  procession  already  preparing  in  the  quad- 
rangle below,  through  the  carriages  and  luggage  being 
brought  together  by  the  servants  for  the  day's  journey. 
Then,  breakfast  in  another  painted  chamber,  damp-stained 
and  of  desolate  proportions;  and  then  the  departure,  which, 
to  her  timidity  and  sense  of  not  being  grand  enough  for  her 
place  in  the  ceremonies,  was  always  an  uneasy  thing.  For 
then  the  courier  (who  himself  would  have  been  a  foreign 
gentleman  of  high  mark  in  the  Marshalsea)  would  present 
himself  to  report  that  all  was  ready;  and  then  her  father's 
valet  would  pompously  induce  him  into  his  traveling-cloak; 
and  then  Fanny's  maid,  and  her  own  maid  (who  was  a  weight 
on  Little  Dorrit's  mind — absolutely  made  her  cry  at  first, 
she  knew  so  little  what  to  do  with  her),  would  be  in  attend- 
ance ;  and  then  her  brother's  man  would  complete  his 
master's  equipment:  and  then  her  father  would  give  his  arm 
to  Mrs.  General,  and  her  uncle  would  give  his  to  her,  and, 
escorted  by  the  landlord  and  inn  servants,  they  would  swoop 
down-stairs.  There,  a  crowd  would  be  collected  to  see  them 
enter  their  carriages,  which,  amidst  much  bowing,  and  beg- 
ging, and  prancing,  and  lashing,  and  clattering,  they  would 
do;  and  so  they  would  be  driven  madly  through  the  narrow 
unsavory  streets,  and  jerked  out  at  the  town  gate 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  467 

Among  the  day's  unrealities  would  be  roads  where  the 
bright  red  vines  were  looped'ahd  garlanded  together  on  trees 
for  many  miles;  woods  of  olives;  white  villages  and  towns  on 
hillsides,  lovely  without,  but  frightful  in  their  dirt  and  poverty 
within  ;  crosses  by  the  way  ;  deep  blue  lakes  with  fairy 
islandSj^and  clustering  boats  with  awnings  of  bright  colors 
and  sails  of  beautiful  forms  ;  vast  piles  of  building  molder- 
ing  to  dust;  hanging-gardens  where  the  weeds  had  grown  so 
strong  that  their  stems,  like  wedges  driven  home,  had  split 
the  arch  and  rent  the  wall;  stone-terraced  lanes,  with  the 
lizard  running  into  and  out  of  every  chink;  beggars  of  all 
sorts  everN^where  ;  pitiful,  picturesque,  hungry,  merry; 
children  beggars  and  aged  beggars.  Often  at  posting- 
houses,  and  other  halting  places,  these  miserable  creatures 
would  appear  to  her  the  only  realities  of  the  day;  and  many 
a  time  when  the  money  she  had  brought  to  give  them  was  all 
given  away,  she  would  sit  with  her  folded  hands,  thought- 
fully looking  after  some  diminutive  girl  leading  her  gray 
father,  as  if  the  sight  reminded  her  of  something  in  the  days 
that  were  gone. 

Again,  there  would  be  places  where  they  staid  the  week 
together,  in  splendid  rooms,  had  banquets  every  day,  rode  out 
among  heaps  of  wonders,  walked  through  miles  of  palaces, 
and  rested  in  dark  corners  of  great  churches  ;  where  there 
were  winking  lamps  of  gold  and  silver  among  pillars  and  archer., 
kneeling  figures  dotted  about  at  confessionals  and  on  the 
pavements  ;  where  there  was  the  mist  and  scent  of  incense  ; 
where  there  were  pictures,  fantastic  images,  gaudy  altars, 
great  heights  and  distances,  all  softly  lighted  through  stained 
glass,  and  the  massive  curtains  that  hung  in  the  doorways. 
From  these  cities  they  would  go  on  again,  by  the  roads  of 
vines  and  olives,  through  squalid  villages  where  there  was 
not  a  hovel  without  a  gap  in  its  filthy  walls,  not  a  window 
with  a  whole  inch  of  glass  or  paper  ;  where  there  seemed  to 
be  nothing  to  support  life,  nothing  to  eat,  nothing  to  make, 
nothing  to  grow,  nothing  to  hope,  nothing  to  do  but  die. 

Again  they  would  come  to  whole  towns  of  palaces,  whose 
proper  inmates  were  all  banished,  and  which  were  all  changed 
into  barracks  ;  troops  of  idle  soldiers  leaning  out  of  the  state 
windows,  where  their  accouterments  hung  drying  on  the  mar- 
ble architecture,  and  showing  to  the  mind  like  hosts  of  rats 
who  were  (happily)  eating  away  the  props  of  the  edifices  that 
supported  them,  and  must  soon,  with  them,  be  smashed  on 
the  heads  of  the  other  swarms  of  soldiers,  and  the  swarms  of 


468  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

priests,  and  the  swarms  of  spies,  who  were  all  the  ill-looking 
population  left  to  be  ruined,  in  the  streets  below. 

Through  such  scenes,  the  family  procession  moved  on  to 
Venice.  And  here  it  dispersed  for  a  time,  as  they  were  to 
live  in  Venice  some  few  months,  in  a  palace  (itself  six  times 
as  big  as  the  whole  Marshalsea)  on  the  Grand  Canal. 

In  this  crowning  unreality,  where  all  the  streets  were  paved 
with  water,  and  where  the  death-like  stillness  of  the  days  and 
nights  was  broken  by  no  sound  but  the  softened  ringing  of 
church-bells,  the  rippling  of  the  current,  and  the  cry  of  the 
gondoliers  turning  the  corners  of  the  flowing  streets,  Little 
Dorrit,  quite  lost  by  her  task  being  done,  sat  down  to  muse. 
The  family  began  a  gay  life,  went  here  and  there,  and  turned 
night  into  day  ;  but  she  was  timid  of  joining  in  their  gaye- 
ties  and  only  asked  leave  to  be  left  alone. 

Sometimes  she  would  step  into  one  of  the  gondolas  that 
were  always  kept  in  waiting,  moored  to  painted  posts  at  the 
door — when  she  could  escape  from  the  attendance  of  that 
oppressive  maid,  who  was  her  mistress,  and  a  very  hard  one 
— and  would  be  taken  all  over  the  strange  city.  Social  peo- 
ple in  other  gondolas  began  to  ask  each  other  who  the  little 
solitary  girl  was  whom  they  passed,  sitting  in  her  boat  with 
folded  hands,  looking  so  pensively  and  wonderingly  about 
her.  Never  thinking  that  it  would  be  worth  any  body's 
while  to  notice  her  or  her  doings,  Little  Dorrit,  in  her  quiet, 
scared,  lost  manner,  went  about  the  city  none  the  less. 

But  her  favorite  station  was  the  balcony  of  her  own  room, 
overhanging  the  canal,  with  other  balconies  below^  and  none 
above.  It  was  of  massive  stone  darkened  by  ages,  built  in  a 
wild  fancy  which  came  from  the  East  to  that  collection  of 
wild  fancies  ;  and  Little  Dorrit  was  little  indeed,  leaning  on 
the  broad-cushioned  ledge,  and  looking  over.  As  she  liked 
no  place  of  an  evening  half  so  well,  she  soon  began  to  be 
watched  for,  and  many  eyes  in  passing  gondolas  were  raised, 
and  many  people  said,  there  was  the  Httle  figure  of  the  En- 
glish girl  who  was  always  alone. 

Such  people  were  not  realities  to  the  little  figure  of  the 
English  girl  ;  such  people  were  all  unknown  to  her.  She 
would  watch  the  sutset,  in  its  long  low  lines  of  purple  and 
red,  and  its  burning  flush  high  up  into  the  sky  ;  so  glowing 
on  the  buildings,  and  so  lightening  their  structure,  that  it  made 
them  look  as  if  their  strong  walls  were  transparent,  and  they 
shone  from  within.  She  would  watch  those  glories  expire  ; 
and  then,  after  looking  at  the  black   gondolas  underneath, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  469 

taking  guests  to  music  and  dancing,  would  raise  her  eyes  to 
the  shining  stars.  Was  there  no  party  of  her  own,  in  other 
times,  on  which  the  stars  had  shone  ?  To  think  of  that  old 
gate  now  ! 

She  would  think  of  that  old  gate,  and  of  herself  sitting  at 
it  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  pillowing  Maggy's  head  ;  and  of 
other  places  and  of  other  scenes  associated  with  those  differ- 
ent times.  And  then  she  would  lean  upon  her  balcony,  and 
look  over  at  the  water,  as  though  they  all  lay  underneath  it. 
When  she  got  to  that,  she  would  musingly  watch  its  running, 
as  if,  in  the  general  vision,  it  might  run  dry,  and  show  her 
the  prison  again,  and  herself,  and  the  old  room,  and  the  old 
mmates,  and  the  old  visitors  ;  all  lasting  realities  that  had 
never  changed. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
a  letter  from  little  dorrit. 

Dear  Mr.  Clennam, 

I  write  to  you  from  my  own  room  at  Venice,  thinking  you 
will  be  glad  to  hear  from  me.  But  I  know  you  can  not  be  so 
glad  to  hear  from  me  as  I  am  to  write  to  you;  for  every  thing 
about  you  is  as  you  have  been  accustomed  to  see  it,  and 
you  miss  nothing — unless  it  should  be  me,  which  can  only 
be  for  a  very  little  while  together,  and  very  seldom — while 
every  thing  in  my  life  is  so  strange,  and  I  miss  so  much. 

When  we  were  in  Switzerland,  which  appears  to  have 
been  years  ago,  though  it  was  only  weeks,  I  met  young 
Mrs.  Gowan,  who  was  on  a  mountain  excursion  like  our- 
selves. She  told  me  she  was  very  well  and  very  happy. 
She  sent  you  the  message  by  me,  that  she  thanked  you 
affectionately  and  would  never  forget  you.  She  was  quite 
confiding  with  me,  and  I  loved  her  almost  as  soon  as  I 
spoke  to  her.  But  there  is  nothing  singular  in  that;  *who 
could  help  loving  so  beautiful  and  winning  a  creature  ? 
I  could  not  wonder  at  any  one  loving  her.     No,    indeed. 

It  will  noc  make  you  uneasy  on  Mrs.  Gowan's  account, 
I  hope — for  I  remember  that  you  said  you  had  the  inter- 
est of  a  true  friend  in  her — if  I  tell  you  that  I  wish  she 
could  have  married  some  one  better  suited  to  her.  Mr. 
Gowan  seems  fond  of  her,  and  of  course  she  is  very  fond 
of  him,  but  I  thought  he  was  not  earnest  enough — I  don't 


470  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

mean  in  that  respect — I  mean  in  any  thing.  I  could  not 
keep  it  out  of  my  mind  that  if  I  was  Mrs.  Gowan  (what 
a  change  that  would  be,  and  how  I  must  alter  to  become 
like  her  !)  I  should  feel  that  I  was  rather  lonely  and  lost, 
for  the  want  of  some  one  who  was  steadfast  and  firm  in 
purpose.  I  even  thought  she  felt  this  want  a  little,  almost 
without  knowing  it.  But  mind  you  are  not  made  uneasy 
by  this,  for  she  was  "  very  well  and  very  happy."  And 
she  looked  most  beautiful. 

I  expect  to  meet  her  again  before  long,  and  indeed  have 
been  expecting  for  some  days  past  to  see  her  here.  I 
will  ever  be  as  good  a  friend  to  her  as  I  can  for  your  sake. 
Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  I  dare  say  you  think  little  of  having 
been  a  friend  to  me  when  I  had  no  other  (not  that  I  have 
any  other  now,  for  I  have  made  no  new  friends),  but  I 
think  much  of  it,  and  I  never  can  forget  it. 

I  wish  I  knew — but  it  is  best  for  no  one  to  write  to  me 
— how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plornish  prosper  in  the  business  which 
my  dear  father  bought  for  them,  and  that  old  Mr.  Nandy 
lives  happily  with  them  and  his  two  grandchildren,  and 
sings  all  his  songs  over  and  over  again.  I  can  not  quite 
keep  back  the  tears  from  my  eyes  when  I  think  of  my  poor 
Maggy,  and  of  the  blank  she  must  have  felt  at  first,  how- 
ever kind  they  all  are  to  her,  without  her  little  mother. 
Will  you  go  and  tell  her,  as  a  strict  secret,  with  my  love, 
that  she  never  can  have  regretted  our  separation  more  than 
I  have  regretted  it  ?  And  will  you  tell  them  all  that  I  have 
thought  of  them  every  day,  and  that  my  heart  is  faithful  to 
them  everywhere  ?  Oh,  if  you  could  know  how  faithful, 
you  would  almost  pity  me  for  being  so  far  away  and  being 
so  grand  ! 

You  will  be  glad,  I  am  sure,  to  know  that  my  dear  father 
is  very  well  in  health,  and  that  all  these  changes  are  highly 
beneficial  to  him;  and  that  he  is  very  different  indeed 
from  what  he  used  to  be  when  you  used  to  see  him.  There 
is  an  improvement  in  my  uncle,  too,  I  think,  though  he 
never  complained  of  old,  and  never  exults  now.  Fanny 
is  very  graceful,  quick  and  clever.  It  is  natural  to  her  to 
be  a  lady;  she  has  adapted  herself  to  our  new  fortunes, 
with  wonderful  ease.  • 

This  reminds  me  that  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  so,  and 
that  I  sometimes  almost  despair  of  ever  being  able  to  do 
so.  I  find  that  I  can  not  learn.  Mrs.  General  is  always 
with  us,  and  we  speak  French  and  speak  Italian,  and  she 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  471 

takes  pains  to  form  us  in  many  ways.  When  I  say  we 
speak  French  and  Italian,  I  mean  they  do.  As  for  me,  I 
am  so  slow  that  I  scarcely  get  on  at  all.  As  soon  as  I 
begin  to  plan,  and  think,  and  try,  all  my  planning,  think- 
ing, and  trying,  go  in  old  directions,  and  I  begin  to  feel 
careful  again  about  the  expenses  of  the  day,  and  about  my 
dear  father,  and  about  my  work,  and  then  I  remember 
with  a  start  that  there  are  no  such  cares  left,  and  that  in 
itself  is  so  new  and  improbable  that  it  sets  me  wandering 
again.  I  should  not  have  the  courage  to  mention  this  to 
any  one  but  you. 

It  is  the  same  with  all  these  new  countries  and  wonderful 
sights.  They  are  very  beautiful,  and  they  astonish  me,  but  I 
am  not  collected  enough — not  familiar  enough  with  myself, 
if  you  can  quite  understand  what  I  mean — to  have  all  the 
pleasure  in  them  that  I  might  haye.  What  I  knew  before  them 
blends  with  them,  too,  so  curiously.  For  instance,  when  we 
were  among  the  mountains,  I  often  felt  (I  hesitate  to  tell  such 
an  idle  thing,  dear  Mr.  Clennam,  even  to  you)  as  if  the  Mar- 
shalsea  must  be  behind  that  great  rock;  or  as  if  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam's  room  where  I  have  worked  so  many  days,  and  where  I 
first  saw  you,  must  be  just  beyond  that  snow.  Do  you  remem- 
ber one  night  when  I  came  with  Maggy  to  your  lodging  in 
Covent  Garden  ?  That  room  I  have  often  and  often  fancied 
I  have  seen  before  me,  traveling  along  for  miles  by  the  side 
of  our  carriage,  when  I  have  looked  out  of  the  carriage-win- 
dow after  dark.  We  were  shut  out  that  night,  and  sat  at  the 
iron  gate,  and  walked  about  till  morning.  I  often  look  up 
at  the  stars,  even  frcwii  the  balcony  of  this  room,  and  believe 
that  I  am  in  the  street  again,  shut  out  with  Maggy.  It  is  the 
same  with  people  that  I  left  in  England. 

When  I  go  about  here  in  a  gondola,  I  surprise  myself  look- 
ing into  other  gondolas  as  if  I  hoped  to  see  them.  It  would 
overcome  me  with  joy  to  see  them,  but  I  don't  think  it  would 
surprise  me  much,  at  first.  In  my  fanciful  times,  I  fancy 
that  they  might  be  anywhere  ;  and  I  most  expect  to  see  their 
dear  faces  on  the  bridges  or  the  quays. 

Another  difficulty  that  I  have  will  seem  very  strange  to 
you.  It  must  seem  very  strange  to  any  one  but  me,  and  does 
even  to  me  :  I  often  feel  the  old  sad  pity  for — I  need  not 
write  the  word — for  him.  Changed  as  he  is,  and  inexpress- 
ibly blest  and  thankful  as  I  always  am  to  know  it,  the  old 
sorrowful  feeling  of  compassion  comes  upon  me  sometimes 
with  such  strength,  that  I  want  to  put  my  arms  round  his 


472  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

neck,  and  tell  him  how  I  love  him,  and  cry  a  little  on  his 
breast.  I  should  be  glad  after  that,  and  proud  and  happy. 
But  I  know  that  I  must  not  do  this  ;  that  he  would  not  like 
it,  that  Fanny  would  be  angry,  that  Mrs.  General  would  be 
amazed  ;  and  so  I  quiet  myself.  Yet  in  doing  so,  I  strug- 
gle with  the  feeling  that  I  have  come  to  be  at  a  distance 
from  him  ;  and  that  even  in  the  midst  of  all  the  servants 
and  attendants,  he  is  deserted,  and  in  want  of  me. 

Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  I  have  written  a  great  deal  about 
myself,  but  I  must  write  a  little  more  still,  or  what  I  wanted 
most  of  all  to  say  in  this  weak  letter  would  be  left  out  of  it. 
In  all  these  foolish  thoughts  of  mine,  which  I  have  been  so 
hardy  as  to  confess  to  you  because  I  know  you  will  under- 
stand me  if  any  body  can,  and  will  make  more  allowance  for 
me  than  any  body  else  would  if  you  can  not — in  all  these 
thoughts,  there  is  one  thought  scarcely  ever — never — out  of 
my  memory,  and  that  is  that  I  hope  you  sometimes,  in  a  quiet 
moment,  have  a  thought  for  me.  I  must  tell  you  that  as  to 
this,  I  have  felt,  ever  since  I  have  been  away,  an  anxiety 
which  I  am  very  very  anxious  to  relieve.  I  have  been  afraid 
that  you  may  think  of  me  in  a  new  light,  or  a  new  character. 
Don't  do  that,  I  could  not  bear  that — it  would  make  me  more 
unhappy  than  you  can  suppose.  It  would  break  my  heart 
to  believe  that  you  thought  of  me  in  any  way  that  would 
make  me  stranger  to  you,  than  I  was  when  you  were  so  good 
to  me.  What  I  have  to  pray  and  entreat  of  you  is,  that  you 
will  never  think  of  me  as  the  daughter  of  a  rich  person;  that 
you  will  never  think  of  me  as  dressing  any  better,  or  living 
any  better,  than  when  you  first  knew  me.  That  you  will 
remember  me  only  as  the  little  shabby  girl  you  protected 
with  so  much  tenderness,  from  whose  threadbare  dress  you 
have  kept  away  the  rain,  and  whose  wet  feet  you  have  dried 
at  your  fire.  That  you  will  think  of  me  (when  you  think  of 
meat  all),  and  of  my  true  affection  and  devoted  gratitude, 
always  without  change,  as  of 

Your  poor  child, 

Little  Dorrit. 

P.  S. — Particularly  remember  that  you  are  not  to  be 
uneasy  about  Mrs.  Gowan.  Her  words  were,  "  Very  well 
and  very  happy."     And  she  looked  most  beautiful. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  473 


CHAPTER   V. 

SOMETHING    WRONG    SOMEWHERE. 

The  family  had  been  a  month  or  two  at  Venice,  when  Mr. 
Dorrit,  who  was  much  among  counts  and  marquises,  and  had 
but  scant  leisure,  set  an  hour  of  one  day  apart,  beforehand, 
for  the  purpose  of  holding  some  conference  with  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral. 

The  time  he  had  reserved  in  his  mind  arriving,  he  sent 
Mr.  Tinkler,  his  valet,  to  Mrs.  General's  apartment  (which 
would  have  absorbed  about  a  third  of  the  area  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea),  to  present  his  compliments  to  that  lady,and  represent 
him  as  desiring  the  favor  of  an  interview.  It  being  that  pe- 
riod of  the  forenoon  when  the  various  members  of  the  family 
had  coffee  in  their  own  chambers,  some  couple  of  hours  be- 
fore assembling  at  breakfast  in  a  faded  hall  which  had  once 
been  sumptuous,  but  was  now  the  prey  of  watery  vapors  and 
a  settled  rnelancholy,  Mrs.  General  was  accessible  to  thevalet. 
That  envoy  found  her  on  a  little  square  of  carpet,  so  extremely 
diminutive  in  reference  to  the  size  of  her  stone  and  marble 
floor,  that  she  looked  as  if  she  might  have  had  it  spread  for 
the  trying  on  of  a  ready-made  pair  of  shoes  ;  or  as  if  she  had 
come  into  possession  of  the  enchanted  piece  of  carpet,  bought 
for  forty  purses  by  one  of  the  three  princes  in  the  Arabian 
Nights,  and  had  that  moment  been  transported  on  it,  at  a 
wish,  into  a  palatial  saloon  with  which  it  had  no  connection. 

Mrs.  General,  replying  to  the  envoy,  as  she  sat  down  her 
empty  coffee-cup,  that  she  was  willing,  at  once  to  proceed 
to  Mr.  Dorrit's  apartment,  and  spare  him  the  trouble  of 
coming  to  her  (which,  in  his  gallantry,  he  had  proposed), 
the  envoy  threw  open  the  door,  and  escorted  Mrs.  General 
to  the  presence.  It  was  quite  a  walk,  by  mysterious  stair- 
cases and  corridors,  from  Mrs.  General's  apartment — hood- 
winked by  a  narrow  side  street  with  a  low  gloomy  bridge 
in  it,  and  dungeon-like  opposite  tenements,  their  walls 
besmeared  with  a  thousand  downward  stains  and  streaks,  as 
if  every  crazy  aperture  in  them  had  been  weeping  tears 
of  rust  into  the  Adriatic  for  centuries — to  Mr.  Dorrit's 
apartment  ;  with  a  whole  English  house-front  of  window,  a 
prospect  of  beautiful  church-domes  rising  into  the  blue  sky 
sheer  out  of  the  water  which  reflected  them,  and  a  hushed 
murmur  of  the  grand  canal    laving   the  doorways  below, 


474  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

where  his  gondolas  and  gondoliers  attended  his  pleasure, 
drowsily  swinging  in  a  little  forest  of  piles. 

Mr.  Dorrit,  in  a  resplendent  dressing-gown  and  cap — the 
dormant  grub  that  had  so  long  bided  its  time  among  the 
collegians  had  burst  into  a  rare  butterfly — rose  to  receive 
Mrs.  General.  A  chair  to  Mrs.  General.  An  easier  chair, 
sir  ;  what  are  you  doing,  what  are  you  about,  what  do  you 
mean  ?     Now  leave  us  ! 

''  Mrs.  General,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  took  the  liberty " 

*'  By  no  means,"  Mrs.  General  interposed.  ^'  I  was  quite 
at  your  disposition.     I  had  had  my  coffee." 

"  I  took  the  liberty,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit  again,  with  the 
magnificent  placidity  of  one  who  was  above  correction,  ^'to 
solicit  the  favor  of  a  little  private  conversation  with  you, 
because  I  feel  rather  worried  respecting  my — ha — my 
younger  daughter.  You  will  have  observed  a  great  differ- 
ence of  temperament,  madam,  between  my  two  daughters  ?" 

Said  Mrs.  General  in  response,  crossing  her  gloved  hands 
(she  was  never  without  gloves,  and  they  never  creased  and 
always  fitted).  **  There  is  a  great  difference." 

"  May  I  ask  to  be  favored  with  your  view  of  it  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  deference  not  incompatible  with  majestic 
serenity. 

*'  P'anny,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  **  has  force  of  character 
and  self-reliance.     Amy,  none." 

None  !  Oh,  Mrs.  General,  ask  the  Marshalsea  stones 
and  bars.  Oh,  Mrs.  General,  ask  the  milliner  who  taught 
her  to  work,  and  the  dancing-master  who  taught  her  sister 
to  dance.  Oh,  Mrs.  General,  Mrs.  General,  ask  me,  her 
father,  what  I  owe  to  her  ;  and  hear  my  testimony  touching 
the  life  of  this  slighted  little  creature,  from  her  childhood  up! 

No  such  adjuration  entered  Mr.  Dorrit's  head.  He  looked 
at  Mrs.  General,  seated  in  her  usual  erect  attitude  on 
her  coach-box  behind  the  proprieties,  and  he  said  in  a 
thoughtful  manner.  "  True,  madam." 

"  I  would  not,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "be  understood  to  say, 
observe,  that  there  is  nothing  to  improve  in  Fanny.  But 
there  is  material  there — perhaps,  indeed,  a  little  too 
much." 

"  Will  you  be  kind  enough,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit, 
"  to  be — ha — more  explicit  ?  I  do  not  quite  understand 
my  elder  daughter's  having — hum — too  much  material. 
What  material  ?  " 

"  Fanny,"  returned   Mrs.  General,  "  at  present  forms  toe 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  475 

many  opinions.     Perfect  breeding  forms  none,  and  is  never 
demonstrative." 

Lest  he  himself  should  be  found  deficient  in  perfect  breed- 
ing, Mr.  Dorrit  hastened  to  reply,  ^'  Unquestionably,  madam, 
you  are  right."  Mrs.  General  returned,  in  her  ernotionless 
and  expressionless  manner,  "  I  believe  so." 

"  But  you  are  aware,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit, 
^*  that  my  daughters  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  their  lamented 
mother  when  they  were  very  young  ;  and  that  in  conse- 
quence of  my  not  having  been  until  lately  the  recognized 
heir  to  my  property,  they  have  lived  with  me  as  a  compara- 
tively poor,  though  always  proud,  gentleman,  in — ha  hum — 
retirement  !  " 

*^  I  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "lose  sight  of  the  circum- 
stance." 

"  Madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  of  my  daughter  Fanny, 
under  her  present  guidance  and  with  such  an  example  con- 
stantly before  her " 

(Mrs.  General  shut  her  eyes.) 

— "  I  have  no  misgivings.  There  is  adaptability  of  char 
acter  in  Fanny.  But  my  younger  daughter,  Mrs.  General, 
rather  worries  and  vexes  my  thoughts.  I  must  inform  you 
that  she  has  always  been  my  favorite." 

"  There  is  no  accounting,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "  for  these 
partialities." 

"  Ha — no,"  assented  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  No.  Now,  madam, 
I  am  troubled  by  noticing  that  Amy  is  not,  so  to  speak,  one 
of  ourselves.  She  does  not  care  to  go  about  with  us  ;  she  is 
lost  in  the  society  we  have  here  ;  our  tastes  are  evidently  not 
her  tastes.  Which,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  summing  up  with  ju- 
dicial gravity,  "  is  to  say,  in  other  words,  that  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  in — ha — Amy." 

''  May  we  incline  to  the  supposition,"  said  Mrs.  General, 
with  a  little  touch  of  varnish,  *^  that  something  is  referable 
to  the  novelty  of  the  position  ?  " 

**  Excuse  me,  madam,"  observed  Mr.  Dorrit,  rather  quick- 
ly. "  The  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  though — ha — himself 
at  one  time  comparatively  far  from  affluent — comparatively 
— and  herself  reared  in — hum — retirement,  need  not  of  ne- 
cessity find  this  position  so  very  novel." 

"  True,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "true." 

"  Therefore,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  took  the  lib- 
erty "  (he  laid  an  emphasis  on  the  phrase  and  repeated  it,  as 
though  he  stipulated,  with   urbane   firmness,  that  he  must 


476  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

not  be  contradicted  again),  *'  I  took  the  liberty  of  requesting 
this  interview,  in  order  that  I  might  mention  the  topic  to 
you,  and  inquire  how  you  would  advise  me  ?  " 

*'  Mr.  Dorrit,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  ^*  I  have  conversed 
with  Amy  several  times  since  we  have  been  residing  here, 
on  the  general  subject  of  the  formation  of  a  demeanor.  She 
has  expressed  herself  to  me  as  wondering  exceedingly  at 
Venice.  I  have  mentioned  to  her  that  it  is  better  not  to 
wonder.  I  have  pointed  out  to  her  that  the  celebrated  Mr. 
Eustace,  the  classical  tourist,  did  not  think  much  of  it  ;  and 
that  he  compared  the  Rialto,  greatly  to  its  disadvantage, 
with  Westminster  and  Blackfriars  Bridges.  I  need  not  add, 
after  what  you  have  said,  that  I  have  not  yet  found  my  ar- 
guments successful.  You  do  me  the  honor  to  ask  me  what 
I  advise.  It  always  appears  to  me  (if  this  should  prove  to 
be  a  baseless  assumption,  I  shall  be  pardoned),  that  Mr. 
Dorrit  has  been  accustomed  to  exercise  influence  over  the 
minds  of  others." 

^'  Hum — madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  have  been  at  the 
head  of — ha — of  a  considerable  community.  You  are  right 
in  supposing  that  I  am  not  unaccustomed  to — an  influential 
position." 

^*  I  am  happy,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  "  to  be  so  corrob- 
orated. I  would  therefore  the  more  confidently  recommend, 
that  Mr.  Dorrit  should  speak  to  Amy  himself,  and  make  his 
observations  or  wishes  known  to  her.  Being  his  favorite 
besides,  and  no  doubt  attached  to  him,  she  is  all  the  more 
likely  to  yield  to  his  influence." 

"  I  had  anticipated  your  suggestion,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dorrit,  "  but — ha — was  not  sure  that  I  might — hum — not 
encroach  on " 

"  On  my  province,  Mr.  Dorrit  ? "  said  Mrs.  General,  gra- 
ciously.    ^^  Do  not  mention  it." 

"  Then,  with  your  leave, .  madam,"  resumed  Mr.  Dorrit, 
ringing  his  little  bell  to  summon  his  valet,  *'  I  will  send  for 
her  at  once." 

**  Does  Mr.  Dorrit  wish  me  to  remain  ? " 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  have  no  other  engagement,  you  would 
not  object  for  a  minute  or  two " 

''  Not  at  all." 

So,  Tinkler  the  valet  was  instructed  to  find  Miss  Amy's 
maid,  and  to  request  that  subordinate  to  inform  Miss  Amy 
that  Mr.  Dorrit  wished  to  see  her  in  his  own  room.  In  de- 
livering this  charge  to  Tinkler,  Mr.    Dorrit  looked  severely 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  4V7 

at  him,  and  also  kept  a  jealous  eye  upon  him  until  he  went 
out  at  ihe  door,  mistrusting  that  he  might  have  something 
in  his  mind  prejudicial  to  the  family  dignity  ;  that  he  might 
have  even  got  wind  of  some  collegiate  joke  before  he  came 
into  the  service,  and  might  be  derisively  reviving  its  remem- 
brance at  the  present  moment.  If  Tinkler  had  happened 
to  smile,  however  faintly  and  innocently,  nothing  would 
have  persuaded  Mr.  Dorrit,  to  the  hour  of  his  death,  but 
that  this  was  the  case.  As  Tinkler  happened,  however, 
very  fortunately  for  himself,  to  be  of  a  serious  and  com- 
posed countenance,  he  escaped  the  secret  danger  that 
threatened  him.  And  as  on  his  return — when  Mr.  Dorrit 
eyed  him  again — he  announced  Miss  Amy  as  if  she  had 
come  to  a  funeral,  he  left  a  vague  impression  on  Mr.  Dor- 
rit's  mind  that  he  was  a  well-conducted  young  fellow,  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  study  of  his  catechism,  by  a 
widowed  mother. 

"  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  you  have  just  now  been  the 
subject  of  some  conversation  between  myself  and  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral. We  agree  that  you  scarcely  seem  at  home  here.  Ha 
— how  is  this  ?  " 

A  pause. 

"  I  think,  father,  I  require  a  little  time." 

"  Papa  is  a  preferable  mode  of  address,"  observed  Mrs. 
General.  **  Father  is  rather  vulgar,  my  dear.  The  word 
papa,  besides,  gives  a  pretty  form  to  the  lips.  Papa,  pota- 
toes, poultry,  prunes,  and  prism,  are  all  very  good  words 
for  the  lips;  especially  prunes  and  prism.  You  will  find  it 
serviceable,  in  the  formation  of  a  demeanor,  if  you  some- 
times say  to  yourself  in  company — on  entering  a  room,  for 
instance — papa,  potatoes,  poultry,  prunes  and  prism,  prunes 
and  prism." 

*'  Pray,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  **  attend  to  the  — hum 
— precepts  of  Mrs.  General." 

Poor  Little  Dorrit,  with  a  rather  forlorn  glance  at  that 
eminent  varnisher,  promised  to  try. 

"  You  say.  Amy,"  pursued  Mr.  Dorrit,  **  that  you  think 
you  require  time.     Time  for  what  ?  " 

Another  pause. 

*'  To  become  accustomed  to  the  novelty  of  my  life,  was  all 
I  meant,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  with  her  loving  eyes  upon  her 
father  ;  whom  she  had  very  nearly  addressed  as  poultry,  if 
not  prunes  and  prism  too,  in  her  desire  to  submit  herself  to 
Mrs.  General  and  please  him. 


478  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mr.  Dorrit  frowned  and  looked  any  thing  but  pleased. 
"Amy,"  he  returned,  "  it  appears  to  me,  I  must  say,  that  you 
have  had  abundance  of  time  for  that.  Ha — you  surprise  me. 
You  disappoint  me.  Fanny  has  conquered  any  such  little 
difficulties,  and — hum — why  not  you  ?  " 

''  I  hope  I  shall  do  better  soon,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  her  father.  '^  I — ha — I  most  de- 
voutly hope  so,  Amy.  I  sent  for  you,  in  order  that  I  might 
say — hum — impressively  say,  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral, to  whom  we  are  all  so  much  indebted  for  obligingly  be- 
ing present  among  us,  on — ha — on  this  or  any  other  occa- 
sion," Mrs.  General  shut  her  eyes,  "  that  I — ha  hum — am 
not  pleased  with  you.  You  make  Mrs.  General's  a  thankless 
task.  You — ha — embarrass  me  very  much.  You  have  al- 
ways (as  I  have  informed  Mrs.  General)  been  my  favorite 
child;  I  have  always  made  you  a — hum — a  friend  and  com- 
panion; in  return,  I  beg — I — ha — I  do  beg,  that  you  accom- 
modate yourself  better  to — hum — circumstances,  and  duti- 
fully do  what  becomes  your — your  station." 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  even  a  little  more  fragmentary  than  usual; 
being  excited  on  the  subject,  and  anxious  to  make  himself 
particularly  emphatic. 

^*  I  do  beg,"  he  repeated,  "  that  this  may  be  attended  to, 
and  that  you  will  seriously  take  pains  and  try  to  conduct 
yourself  in  a  manner  both  becoming  your  position  as — ha — 
Miss  Amy  Dorrit,  and  satisfactory  to  myself  and  Mrs. 
General." 

That  lady  shut  her  eyes  again,  on  being  again  referred 
to  ;  then,  slowly  opening  them  and  rising,  added  these 
words  : 

"  If  Miss  Amy  Dorrit  will  direct  her  own  attention  to,  and 
will  accept  of  my  poor  assistance  in,  the  formation  of  a  sur- 
face, Mr.  Dorrit  will  have  no  further  cause  of  anxiety.  May 
I  take  this  opportunity  of  remarking,  as  an  instance  in  point, 
that  it  is  scarcely  delicate  to  look  at  vagrants  with  the  atten- 
tion which  I  have  seen  bestowed  upon  them,  by  a  very  dear 
young  friend  of  mine  ?  They  should  not  be  looked  at. 
Nothing  disagreeable  should  ever  be  looked  at.  Apart  from 
such  a  habit  standing  in  the  way  of  that  graceful  equanimity 
of  surface  which  is  so  expressive  of  good  breeding,  it  hardly 
seems  compatible  with  refinement  of  mind.  A  truly  refined 
mind  will  seem  to  be  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  any  thing 
that  is  not  perfectly  proper,  placid  and  pleasant."  Having 
deJivered  this  exalted  sentiment,  Mrs.  General  made  a  sweep- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  479 

ing  obeisance,  and  retired  with  an  expression  of  mouth  in- 
dicative of  prunes  and  prism. 

Little  Dorrit,  whether  speaking  or  silent,  had  preserved 
her  quiet  earnestness  and  her  loving  look.  It  had  not  been 
clouded,  except  for  a  passing  moment  until  now.  But  now 
that  she  was  left  alone  with  him,  the  fingers  of  her  lightly- 
folded  hands  were  agitated,  and  there  was  repressed  emotion 
in  her  face. 

Not  for  herself.  She  might  feel  a  little  wounded,  but  her 
care  was  not  for  herself.  Her  thoughts  still  turned,  as  they 
always  had  turned,  to  him.  A  faint  misgiving,  which  had 
hung  about  her  since  their  accession  to  fortune,  that  even 
now  she  could  never  see  him  as  he  used  to  be  before  the 
prison  days,  had  gradually  begun  to  assume  form  in  her  mind. 
She  felt  that,  in  what  he  had  just  now  said  to  her,  and  in  his 
whole  bearing  toward  her,  there  was  the  well-known  shadow 
of  the  Marshalsea  wall.  It  took  a  new  shape,  but  it  was  the 
old  sad  shadow.  She  began  with  sorrowful  unwillingness  to 
acknowledge  to  herself,  that  she  was  not  strong  enough  to 
keep  off  the  fear  that  no  space  in  the  life  of  man  could  over- 
come that  quarter  of  a  century  behind  the  prison  bars.  She 
had  no  blame  to  bestow  upon  him,  therefore;  nothing  to  re- 
proach him  with,  no  emotions  in  her  faithlul  heart  but  great 
compassion  and  unbounded  tenderness. 

This  is  why  it  was,  that,  even  as  he  sat  before  her  on  his 
sofa  in  the  brilliant  light  of  a  bright  Italian  day,  the  wonder- 
ful city  without  and  the  splendors  of  an  old  palace  within, 
she  saw  him  at  the  moment  in  the  long-familiar  gloom  of  his 
Marshalsea  lodging,  and  v/ished  to  take  her  seat  beside  him, 
and  comfort  him,  and  be  again  full  of  confidence  with  him, 
and  of  usefulness  to  him.  If  he  divined  what  was  in  her 
thoughts,  his  own  were  not  in  tune  with  it.  After  some  uneasy 
moving  in  his  seat,  he  got  up,  and  walked  about,  looking 
very  much  dissatisfied. 

"Is  there  any  thing  else  you  wish  to  say  to  me,  dear 
father  ?  " 

"  No,  no.     Nothing  else." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  have  not  been  pleased  with  me,  dear.  I 
hope  you  will  not  think  of  me  with  displeasure  now.  I  am 
going  to  try,  more  than  ever,  to  adapt  myself  as  you  wish  to 
what  surrounds  me — for  indeed  I  have  tried  all  along  though 
I  have  failed,  I  know\" 

"  Amy,"  he  returned,  turning  short  upon  her.  "  You — ha 
—habitually  hurt  me  " 


48o  LITTLE  DORRIT 

"  Hurt  you,  father  !     I  !  " 

"  There  is  a — hum — a  topic/'  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  looking  all 
about  the  ceiling  of  the  room,  and  never  at  the  attentive, 
uncomplainingly  shocked  face,  "a painful  topic,  a  series  of 
events  which  1  wish — ha — altogether  to  obliterate.  This  is 
understood  by  your  sister,  who  has  already  remonstrated  with 
you  in  my  presence;  it  is  understood  by  your  brother;  it  is 
understood  by — ha  hum — by  every  one  of  delicacy  and  sen- 
sitiveness, except  yourself — ha — I  am  sorry  to  say,  except 
yourself.  You,  Amy — hum — you  alone  and  only  you — con- 
stantly revive  the  topic,  though  not  in  words.'* 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm.  She  did  nothing  more. 
She  gently  touched  him.  The  trembling  hand  may  have 
said,  with  some  expression,  "  Think  of  me,  think  how  I  have 
worked,  think  of  my  many  cares  !  "  But  she  said  not  a  syl- 
lable herself. 

There  was  a  reproach  in  the  touch  so  addressed  to  him 
that  she  had  not  foreseen,  or  she  would  have  withheld  her 
hand.  He  began  to  justify  himself;  in  a  heated,  stumbling 
angry  manner,  which  made  nothing  of  it. 

**  I  was  there  all  those  years.  I  was — ha — universally 
acknowledged  as  the  head  of  the  place.  I — hum — I  caused 
you  to  be  respected  there,  Amy.  I — ha  hum — I  gave  my 
family  a  position  there.  I  deserve  a  return.  I  claim  a  return. 
I  say,  sweep  it  off  the  face  of  the  earth  and  begin  afresh.  Is 
that  much  ?     I  ask,  is  that  much  ?  " 

He  did  not  at  once  look  at  her,  as  he  rambled  on  in  this 
way;  but  gesticulated  at,  and  appealed  to,  the  empty  air. 

"  I  have  suffered.  Probably  I  know  how  much  I  have 
suffered,  better  than  any  one — ha — I  say  than  any  one  !  If 
/  can  put  that  aside,  if  /  can  eradicate  the  marks  of  what  I 
have  endured,  and  can  emerge  before  the  world  a — ha — gen- 
tleman unspoiled,  unspotted — is  it  a  great  deal  to  expect — I 
say  again,  is  it  a  great  deal  to  expect — that  my  children 
should — hum — do  the  same,  and  sweep  that  accursed  experi- 
ence off  the  face  of  the  earth  ?  " 

In  spite  of  his  flustered  state,  he  made  all  these  exclama- 
tions in  a  carefully  suppressed  voice,  lest  the  valet  should 
overhear  any  thing. 

"  Accordingly,  they  do  it.  Your  sister  does  it.  Your 
brother  does  it.  You  alone,  my  favorite  child,  whom  I  made 
the  friend  and  companion  of  my  life  when  you  were  a  mere 
^hum — baby,  do  not  do  it.  You  alone  say  you  can't  do  it. 
I  provide  you  with  valuable  assistance  to  do  it.    I  attach  an 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  481 

accomplished  and  highly  bred  lady — ha — Mrs.  General,  to 
you,  for  the  purpose  of  doing  it.  Is  it  surprising  that  I 
should  be  displeased  ?  Is  it  necessary  that  I  should  defend 
myself  for  expressing  my  displeasure  ?     No  !  '* 

Notwithstanding  which,  he  continued  to  defend  himself, 
without  any  abatement  of  his  flushed  mood. 

"  I  am  careful  to  appeal  to  that  lady  for  confirmation, 
before  I  express  any  displeasure  at  all.  I — hum — I  neces- 
sarily make  that  appeal  within  limited  bounds,  or  I — ah — 
should  render  legible,  by  that  lady,  what  I  desire  to  be  blot- 
ted out.  Am  I  selfish  ?  Do  I  complain  for  my  own  sake  ? 
No.     No.     Principally  for — ha  hum — your  sake.  Amy.*' 

This  last  consideration  plainly  appeared,  from  his  manner 
of  pursuing  it,  to  have  just  that  instant  come  into  his  head. 

"  I  said  I  was  hurt.  So  I  am.  So  I — ha — am  deter- 
mined to  be,  whatever  is  advanced  to  the  contrary.  I  am 
hurt,  that  my  daughter,  seated  in  the — hum — lap  of  fortune, 
should  mope  and  retire,  and  proclaim  herself  unequal  to  her 
destiny.  I  am  hurt  that  she  should — ha — systematically  re- 
produce what  the  rest  of  us  blot  out;  and  seem — -hum — I  had 
almost  said  positively  anxious — to  announce  to  wealthy  and 
distinguished  society,  that  she  was  born  and  bred  in — ha 
hum — a  place  that  I,  myself,  decline  to  name.  But  there  is 
no  inconsistency — ha — not  the  least,  in  my  feeling  hurt,  and 
yet  complaining  principally  for  your  sake.  Amy.  I  do  ;  I 
say  again,  I  do.  It  is  for  your  sake,  that  I  wish  you  under 
the  auspices  of  Mrs.  General,  to  form  a — ha — a  surface.  It 
is  for  your  sake,  that  I  wish  you  to  have  a — ha — truly  re- 
fined mind,  and  (in  the  striking  words  of  Mrs.  General)  to 
be  ignorant  of  every  thing  that  is  not  perfectly  proper,  placid, 
and  pleasant. 

He  had  been  running  down  by  jerks,  during  his  last 
speech,  like  a  sort  of  ill-adjusted  alarum.  The  touch  was 
still  upon  his  arm.  He  felt  silent  ;  and  after  looking  about 
the  ceiling  again,  for .  a  little  while,  looked  down  at  her. 
Her  head  drooped,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face  ;  but  her 
touch  was  tender  and  quiet,  and  in  the  expression  of  her 
dejected  figure  there  was  no  blame — nothing  but  love.  He 
began  to  whimper,  just  as  he  had  done  that  night  in  the 
prison  when  she  afterward  sat  at  his  bedside  till  morning  ; 
exclaimed  that  he  was  a  poor  ruin  and  a  poor  wretch  in  the 
midst  of  his  wealth  ;  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  "  Hush, 
hush,  my  own  dear.  Kiss  me  !  "  was  all  she  said  to  him. 
His  tears  were  soon  dried,  much  sooner  than  on  the  former 


482  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

occasion  ;  and  he  was  presently  afterward  very  high  with  his  • 
valet,  as  a  way  of  righting  himself  for  having  shed  any. 

With  one  remarkable  exception,  to  be  recorded  in  its 
place,  this  was  the  only  time,  in  his  life  of  freedom  and  for- 
tune, when  he  spoke  to   his  daughter  Amy   of  the  old  days. 

But,  now,  the  breakfast  hour  arrived  ;  and  with  it  Miss 
Fanny  from  her  apartment,  and  Mr.  Edward  from  his  apart- 
ment. Both  these  young  persons  of  distinction  were  some- 
thing the  worse  for  late  hours.  As  to  Miss  Fanny,  she  had 
become  the  victim  of  an  insatiate  mania  for  what  she  called 
"going  into  society  ;  "  and  would  have  gone  into  it  head- 
foremost fifty  times  between  sunset  and  sunrise,  if  so  many 
opportunities  had  been  at  her  disposal.  As  to  Mr.  Edward, 
he,  too,  had  a  large  acquaintance,  and  was  generally  engaged 
(for  the  most  part,  in  diceing  circles,  and  others  of  a  kin- 
dred nature),  during  the  greater  part  of  every  night.  For, 
this  gentleman,  when  his  fortunes  changed,  had  stood  at  the 
great  advantage  of  being  already  prepared  for  the  highest 
associates,  and  having  little  to  learn  ;  so  much  was  he  in- 
debted to  the  happy  accidents  which  had  made  him  ac- 
quainted with  horse-dealing  and  billiard-marking. 

At  breakfast,  Mr.  Frederick  Dorrit  likewise  appeared. 
As  the  old  gentleman  inhabited  the  highest  story  of  the 
palace,  where  he  might  have  practiced  pistol-shooting  with- 
out much  chance  of  discovery  by  the  other  inmates,  his 
younger  niece  had  taken  courage  to  propose  the  restoration 
to  him  of  his  clarionet;  which  Mr.  Dorrit  ordered  to  be  con- 
fiscated, but  which  she  had  ventured  to  preserve.  Notwith- 
standing some  objections  from  Miss  Fanny,  that  it  was  a  low 
instrument,  and  that  she  detested  the  sound  of  it,  the  con- 
cession had  been  made.  But  it  was  then  discovered  that 
he  had  had  enough  of  it,  and  never  played  it,  now  that 
it  was  no  longer  his  means  of  getting  bread.  He  had 
insensibly  acquired  a  new  habit  of  shufiling  into  the  picture- 
galleries,  always  with  his  twisted  paper  of  snuff  in  his  hand 
(much  to  the  indignation  of  Miss  Fanny,  who  had  proposed 
the  purchase  of  a  gold  box  for  him  that  the  family  might 
not  be  discredited,  which  he  had  absolutely  refused  to  carry 
when  it  was  bought);  and  of  passing  hours  and  hours  before 
the  portraits  of  renowned  Venetians.  It  was  never  made 
out  what  his  dazed  eyes  saw  in  them  ;  whether  he  had  an 
interest  in  them  merely  as  pictures,  or  whether  he  confus- 
edly identified  them  with  a  glory  that  was  departed,  like  the 
strength  of  his  own  mind.     But  he  paid  his  court  to  them 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  483 

with  great  exactness,  and  clearly  derived  pleasure  from  the 
pursuit.  After  the  first  few  days,  Little  Dorrit  happened 
one  morning  to  assist  at  these  attentions.  It  so  evidently 
heightened  his  gratification  that  she  often  accompanied  him 
afterward,  and  the  greatest  delight  of  which  the  old  man 
had  shown  himself  susceptible  since  his  ruin,  arose  out  of 
these  excursions,  when  he  would  carry  a  chair  about  for  her 
from  picture  to  picture,  and  stand  behind  it,  in  spite  of  all 
her  remonstrances,  silently  presenting  her  to  the  noble 
Venetians. 

It  fell  out  that  at  this  family  breakfast,  he  referred  to  their 
having  seen  in  a  gallery,  on  the  previous  day,  the  lady  and 
gentleman  whom  they  had  encountered  on  the  Great  St. 
Bernard,  "  I  forget  the  name,"  said  he.  "  I  dare  say  you 
remember  them,  William  ?     I  dare  say  you  do,  Edward  ? " 

"  /  remember  'em  well  enough,"  said  the  latter. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  observed  Miss  Fanny,  with  a  toss  of 
her  head,  and  a  glance  at  her  sister.  "  But  they  would  not 
have  been  called  to  our  remembrance,  I  suspect,  if  uncle 
hadn't  tumbled  over  the  subject." 

"  My  dear,  what  a  curious  phrase,"  said  Mrs.  General. 
"  Would  not  inadvertently  lighted  upon,  or  accidentally  re- 
ferred to,  be  better  ? " 

"  Thank  you  very  much,  Mrs.  General,"  returned  the 
young  lady,  "no,  I  think  not.  On  the  whole,  I  prefer  my  own 
expression." 

This  was  always  Miss  Fanny's  way  of  receiving  a  sugges- 
tion from  Mrs.  General.  But  she  always  stored  it  up  in  her 
mind,  and  adopted  it  at  another  time. 

"  I  should  have  mentioned  our  having  met  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gowan,  Fanny,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  "even  if  uncle  had  not. 
I  have  scarcely  seen  you  since,  you  know.  I  meant  to  have 
spoken  of  it  at  breakfast ;  because  I  should  like  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Mrs.  Gowan,  and  to  become  better  acquainted  with  her,  if 
papa  and  Mrs.  General  do  not  object." 

"  Well,  Amy,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  am  sure  I  am  glad  to  find 
you,  at  last,  expressing  a  wish  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  any  body  in  Venice.  Though  whether  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Gowan  are  desirable  acquaintances,  remains  to  be  deter- 
mined." 

"  Mrs.  Gowan  I  spoke  of,  dear." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Fanny.  "  But  you  can't  separate  her 
from  her  husband,  I  believe,  without  an  act  of  parliament." 

"Do  you  think,  papa,"  inquired  Little   Dorrit,  with  diffi- 


484  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

dence  and  hesitation,  **  there  is  any  objection  to  my  making 
this  visit  ?" 

"Really,"  he  replied,  "I — ha — what  is  Mrs.  General's 
view  ?  '* 

Mrs.  General's  view  was,  that  not  having  the  honor  of  any 
acquaintance  with  the  lady  and  gentleman  referred  to,  she 
was  not  in  a  position  to  varnish  the  present  article.  She 
could  only  remark,  as  a  general  principle  observed  in  the 
varnishing  trade,  that  much  depended  on  the  quarter  from 
which  the  lady  under  consideration  was  accredited,  to  a 
family  so  conspicuously  niched  in  the  social  temple  as  the 
family  of  Dorrit. 

At  this  remark  the  face  of  Mr,  Dorrit  gloomed  consider- 
ably. He  was  about  (connecting  the  accrediting  with  an 
obtrusive  person  of  the  name  of  Clennam,  whom  he  imper- 
fectly remembered  in  some  former  state  of  existence)  to 
black-ball  the  name  of  Gowan  finally,  when  Edward  Dorrit, 
Esquire,  came  into  the  conversation,  with  his  glass  in  his 
eye,  and  the  preliminary  remark  of  ''  I  say — you  there  !  Go 
out,  will  you  !  "  Which  was  addressed  to  a  couple  of  men 
who  were  handing  the  dishes  round,  as  a  courteous  intima- 
tion that  their  services  could  be  temporarily  dispensed  with. 

Those  menials  having  obeyed  the  mandate,  Edward  Dor- 
rit, Esquire,  proceeded. 

*'  Perhaps  it's  a  matter  of  policy  to  let  you  all  know  that 
these  Gowans — in  whose  favor,  or  at  least  the  gentleman's, 
I  can't  be  supposed  to  be  much  prepossessed  myself — are 
known  to  people  of  importance,  if  that  makes  any  differ- 
ence." 

"  That,  I  would  say,"  observed  the  fair  varnisher,  "  makes 
the  greatest  difference.  The  connection  in  question,  being 
really  people  of  importance  and  consideration " 

**  As  to  that,"  said  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  "  I'll  give  you 
the  means  of  judging  for  yourself.  You  are  acquainted,  per- 
haps, with  the  famous  name  of  Merdle  ?  " 

"  The  great  Merdle  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  General. 

"  The  Merdle,"  said  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire.  "  They  are 
known  to  him.  Mrs.  Gowan — I  mean  the  dowager,  my  polite 
friend's  mother — is  intimate  with  Mrs.  Merdle,  and  I  know 
these  two  to  be  on  their  visiting  list." 

"  If  so,  a  more  undeniable  guarantee  could  not  be  given," 
said  Mrs.  General  to  Mr.  Dorrit,  raising  her  gloves  and  bow- 
ing her  head  as  if  she  were  doing  homage  to  some  visible 
graven  image. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  485 

"I  beg  to  ask  my  son,  from  motives  of — ha — curiosity/' 
Mr.  Dorrit  observed,  with  a  decided  change  in  his  manner, 
"  how  he  becomes  possessed  of  this — hum — timely  informa- 
tion ?  " 

"  It's  not  a  long  story,  sir,"  returned  Edward  Dorrit, 
Esquire,  "  and  you  shall  have  it  out  of  hand.  To  begin  with, 
Mrs.  Merdle  is  the  lady  you  had  the  parley  with,  at  what's- 
his-name's  place." 

**  Martigny,"  interposed  Miss  Fanny,  with  an  air  of  infi- 
nite languor. 

"  Martigny,"  assented  her  brother,  with  a  slight  nod  and  a 
slight  wink  ;  in  acknowledgment  of  which,  Miss  Fanny  looked 
surprised,  and  laughed  and  reddened. 

**  How  can  that  be  Edward  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  '*  You 
informed  me  that  the  name  of  the  gentleman  with  whom  you 
conferred  was — ha — Sparkler.  Indeed,  you  showed  me  his 
card.     Hum.     Sparkler." 

**  No  doubt  of  it,  father  ;  but  it  doesn't  follow  that  his 
mother's  name  must  be  the  same.  Mrs.  Merdle  was  married 
before,  and  he  is  her  son.  She  is  in  Rome  now  ;  where  prob- 
ably we  shall  know  more  of  her,  as  you  decide  to  winter 
there.  Sparkler  is  just  come  here.  I  passed  last  evening  in 
company  with  Sparkler.  Sparkler  is  a  very  good  fellow  on 
the  whole,  though  rather  a  bore  on  one  subject,  in  conse- 
quence of  being  tremendously  smitten  with  a  certain  young 
lady."  Here  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  eyed  Miss  Fanny 
through  his  glass  across  the  table.  '*  We  happened  last 
night  to  compare  notes  about  our  travels,  and  I  had  the  in- 
formation I  have  given  you  from  Sparkler  himself."  Here 
he  ceased;  continuing  to  eye  Miss  Fanny  through  his  glass, 
with  a  face  much  twisted,  and  not  ornamentally  so,  in  part 
by  the  action  of  keeping  his  glass  in  his  eye,  and  in  part  by 
the  great  subtlety  of  his  smile. 

**  Under  these  circumstances,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  believe 
I  express  the  sentiments  of — ha — Mrs.  General,  no  less 
than  my  own,  when  I  say  that  there  is  no  objection,  but — ha 
hum — quite  the  contrary — to  your  gratifying  your  desire. 
Amy.  I  trust  I  may — ha — hail — this  desire,"  said  Mr.  Dor- 
rit, in  an  encouraging  and  forgiving  manner,  "  as  an  auspi- 
cious omen.  It  is  quite  right  to  know  these  people.  It  is  a 
very  proper  thing.  Mr.  Merdle's  a  name  of — ha — world- 
wide repute.  Mr.  Merdle's  undertakings  are  immense. 
They  bring  him  in  such  vast  sums  of  money,  that  they  are 
regarded  as — hum — national  benefits.'    Mr.   Merdle  is  the 


486  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

man  of  this  time.  The  name  of  Merdle  is  the  name  of  the 
age.  Pray  do  every  thing  on  my  behalf  that  is  civil  to  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Gowan,  for  we  will — ha — we  will  certainly  notice 
them." 

This  magnificent  accordance  of  Mr.  Dorrit*s  recognition 
settled  the  matter.  It  was  not  observed  that  uncle  had 
pushed  away  his  plate,  and  forgotten  his  breakfast;  but  he 
was  not  much  observed  at  any  time,  except  by  Little  Dorrit. 
The  servants  were  recalled,  and  the  meal  proceeded  to  its 
conclusion.  Mrs.  General  rose  and  left  the  table.  Little 
Dorrit  rose  and  left  the  table.  When  Edward  and  Fanny 
remained  whispering  together  across  it,  and  when  Mr.  Dorrit 
remained  eating  figs  and  reading  a  French  newspaper,  uncle 
suddenly  fixed  the  attention  of  all  three,  by  rising  out  of  his 
chair,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table,  and  saying,  "  Brother! 
I  protest  against  it  ?" 

If  he  had  made  a  proclamation  in  an  unknown  tongue, 
and  given  up  the  ghost  immediately  afterward,  he  could  not 
have  astounded  his  audience  more.  The  paper  fell  from 
Mr.  Dorrit's  hand,  and  he  sat  petrified,  with  a  fig  half  way 
to  his  mouth. 

*'  Brother  !"  said  the  old,  man  conveying  a  surprising 
energy  into  his  trembling  voice,  *'  I  protest  against  it  !  I 
love  you;  you  know  I  love  you  dearly.  In  these  many  years, 
I  have  never  been  untrue  to  you  in  a  single  thought.  Weak 
as  I  am,  I  would  at  any  time  have  struck  any  man  who  spoke 
ill  of  you.  But,  brother,  brother,  brother,  I  protest  against 
it  I" 

It  was  extraordinary  to  see  of  what  a  burst  of  earnestness 
such  a  decrepit  old  man  was  capable.  His  eyes  became 
bright,  his  gray  hair  rose  on  his  head,  markings  of  purpose  on 
his  brow  and  face  which  had  faded  from  them  for  five-and- 
twenty  years,  started  out  again,  and  there  was  an  energy  in 
his  hand  that  made  its  action  nervous  once  more. 

**  My  dear  Frederick!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Dorrit,  faintly. 
"  What  is  wrong  ?     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

*'  How  dare  you,"  said  the  old  man,  turning  round  on 
Fanny,  *^  how  dare  you  do  it  ?  Have  you  no  memory  ? 
Have  you  no  heart  ?" 

"  Uncle  !"  cried  Fanny,  affrighted  and  bursting  into  tears, 
"  why  do  you  attack  me  in  this  cruel  manner  ?  What  have 
I  done  ?" 

**  Done  ?"  returned  the  old  man,  pointing  to  her  sister's 
place,  "  where's  your  affectionate,  invaluable  friend  ?  Where's 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  487 

your  devoted  guardian  ?  Where's  your  more  than  mother  ? 
How  dare  you  set  up  superiorities  against  all  these  charac- 
ters combined  in  your  sister  ?  For  shame,  you  false  girl,  for 
shame  !" 

*^  I  love  Amy,"  cried  Miss  Fanny,  sobbing  and  weeping, 
''  as  well  as  I  love  my  life — better  than  I  love  my  life.  I 
don't  deserve  to  be  so  treated.  I  am  as  grateful  to  Amy, 
and  as  fond  of  Amy,  as  it's  possible  for  any  human  being  to 
be.  I  wish  I  was  dead.  I  never  was  so  wickedly  wronged. 
And  only  because  I  am  anxious  for  the  family  credit." 

"  To  the  winds  with  the  family  credit  !"  cried  the  old 
man,  with  great  scorn  and  indignation.  *^  Brother,  I  protest 
against  pride.  I  protest  against  ingratitude.  I  protest 
against  any  one  of  us  here  who  have  known  what  we  have 
known,  and  have  seen  what  we  have  seen,  setting  up  any 
pretension  that  puts  Amy  at  a  moment's  disadvantage,  or  to 
the  cost  of  a  moment's  pain.  We  may  know  that  it's  a  base 
pretension  by  its  having  that  effect.  It  ought  to  bring  a 
judgment  on  us.  Brother,  I  protest  against  it,  in  the  sight 
of  God  !" 

As  his  hand  went  up  above  his  head  and  came  down  on 
the  table,  it  might  have  been  a  blacksmith's.  After  a  few 
moments'  silence,  it  had  relaxed  into  its  usual  weak  condition. 
He  went  round  to  his  brother  with  his  ordinary  shuffling 
step,  put  the  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said,  in  a  softened 
voice,  *'  William,  my  dear,  I  felt  obliged  to  say  it  !  forgive 
me,  for  I  felt  obliged  to  say  it  !  "  and  then  went,  in  his 
bowed  way,  out  of  the  palace  hall,  just  as  he  might  have 
gone  out  of  the  Marshalsea  room. 

All  this  time  Fanny  had  been  sobbing  and  crying,  and 
still  continued  to  do  so.  Edward,  beyond  opening  his 
mouth  in  amazement,  had  not  opened  his  lips,  and  had  done 
nothing  but  stare.  Mr.  Dorrit  also  had  been  utterly  dis- 
comfited, and  quite  unable  to  assert  himself  in  any  way. 
Fanny  was  now  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  never,  never,  never,  was  so  used  !  "  she  sobbed. 
"  There  never  was  any  thing  so  harsh  and  unjustifiable,  so 
disgracefully  violent  and  cruel  !  Dear,  kind,  quiet  little 
Amy,  too,  what  would  she  feel  if  she  could  know  that  she 
had  been  innocently  the  means  of  exposing  me  to  such  treat- 
ment !  But  I'll  never  tell  her  !  No,  good  darling,  I'll  never 
tell  her  !  " 

This  helped  Mr.  Dorrit  to  break  the  silence. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  I — ha — approve  of  your  resolution. 


488  LITTLE  DORRIT . 

It  will  be — ha  hum — much  better  not  to  speak  of  this  to 
Amy.  It  might — hum — it  might  distress  her.  Ha.  No 
doubt  it  would  distress  her  greatly.  It  is  considerate  and 
right  to  avoid  doing  so.  We  will — ha — keep  this  to 
ourselves." 

"  But  the  cruelty  of  uncle  !  "  cried  Miss  Fanny.  "  Oh  I 
never  can  forgive  that  wanton  cruelty  of  uncle  !  " 

'^  My  dear/'  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  recovering  his  tone,  though 
he  remained  unusually  pale,  "  I  must  request  you  not  to  say 
so.  You  must  remember  that  your  uncle  is — ha — not  what 
he  formerly  was,  you  must  remember  that  your  uncle's  state 
requires — hum — great  forbearance  from  us,  great  forbear- 
ance." 

"  I  am  sure,"  cried  Fanny,  piteously,  "  it  is  only  charitable 
to  suppose  that  there  must  be  something  wrong  in  him 
somewhere,  or  he  never  could  have  so  attacked  me,  of  all 
the  people  in  the  world." 

*^  Fanny,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  a  deeply  fraternal  tone, 
"  you  know,  with  his  innumerable  good  points,  what  a — hum 
— wreck  your  uncle  is  ;  and  I  entreat  you  by  the  fondness 
that  I  have  for  him,  and  by  the  fidelity  that  you  know  I 
have  always  shown  him,  to — -ha — to  draw  your  own  conclu- 
sions, and  to  spare  my  brotherly  feelings." 

This  ended  the  scene  ;  Edward  Dorrit,  Esquire,  saying 
nothing  throughout,  but  looking,  to  the  last,  perplexed  and 
doubtful.  Miss  Fanny  awakened  much  affectionate  uneasi- 
ness in  her  sister's  mind  that  day,  by  passing  the  greater 
part  of  it  in  violent  fits  of  embracing  her  and  in  alternately 
giving  her  brooches  and  wishing  herself  dead. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

SOMETHING    RIGHT  SOMEWHERE. 

To  be  in  the  halting  state  of  Mr.  Henry  Gowan,  to  have 
left  one  of  two  powers  in  disgust,  to  want  the  necessary 
qualifications  for  finding  promotion  with  another,  and  to  be 
loitering  moodily  about  on  neutral  ground,  cursing  both  ;  is 
to  be  in  a  situation  unwholesome  for  the  mind,  which  time 
is  not  likely  to  improve.  The  worst  class  of  sum  worked  in 
the  every-day  world,  is  ciphered  by  the  diseased  arithme- 
ticians who  are  always  in  the  rule  of  substraction  as  to  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  489 

merits  and  successes  of  others,  and  never  in  addition  as  to 
their  own. 

The  habit,  too,  of  seeking  some  sort  of  recompense  in 
the  discontented  boast  of  being  disappointed,  is  a  habit 
fraught  with  degeneracy.  A  certain  idle  carelessness  and 
recklessness  of  consistency  soon  comes  of  it.  To  bring 
deserving  things  down  by  setting  undeserving  things  up,  is 
one  of  its  perverted  delights  ;  and  there  is  no  playing  fast 
and  loose  with  the  truth,  in  any  game,  without  growing  the 
worse  for  it. 

In  his  expressed  opinions  of  all  performances  in  the  art  of 
painting  that  were  completely  destitute  of  merit,  Gowan  was 
the  most  liberal  fellow  on  earth.  He  would  declare  such  a 
man  to  have  more  power  in  his  little  finger  (provided  he 
had  none),  than  such  another  had  (provided  he  had  much) 
in  his  whole  mind  and  body.  If  the  objection  were  taken 
that  the  thing  commended  was  trash,  he  would  reply  on 
behalf  of  his  art,  ^'  My  good  fellow,  what  do  we  all  turn  out 
but  trash  ?  /  turn  out  nothing  else,  and  I  make  you  a  present 
of  the  confession." 

To  make  a  vaunt  of  being  poor  was  another  of  the  incidents 
of  his  splenetic  state,  though  this  may  have  had  the  design 
in  it  of  showing  that  he  ought  to  be  rich  ;  just  as  he  would 
publicly  laud  and  decry  the  Barnacles,  lest  it  should  be  for- 
gotten that  he  belonged  to  the  family.  Howbeit,  these  two 
subjects  were  very  often  on  his  lips  ;  and  he  managed  them 
so  well  that  he  might  have  praised  himself  by  the  month  to- 
gether, and  not  have  made  himself  out  half  so  important  a 
man  as  he  did  by  his  light  disparagement  of  his  claims  on 
any  body's  consideration. 

Out  of  this  same  airy  talk  of  his,  it  always  soon  came  to 
be  understood,  wherever  he  and  his  wife  went,  that  he  had 
married  against  the  wishes  of  his  exalted  relations,  and  had 
had  much  ado  to  prevail  on  them  to  countenance  her.  He 
never  made  the  representation,  on  the  contrary  seemed  to 
laugh  the  idea  to  scorn  ;  but  it  did  happen  that,  with  all  his 
pains  to  depreciate  himself,  he  was  always  in  the  superior 
position.  From  the  days  of  their  honeymoon,  Minnie  Gowan 
felt  sensible  of  being  usually  regarded  as  the  wife  of  a  man 
who  had  made  a  descent  in  marrying  her,  but  v/hose  chival- 
rous love  for  her  had  canceled  that  inequality. 

To  Venice  they  had  been  accompanied  by  Monsieur  Blan- 
dois  of  Paris,  and  at  Venice  Monsieur  Blandois  of  Paris  was 
very  much  in  the  society  of  Gowan.     When  they  had  first 


490  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

met  this  gallant  gentleman  at  Geneva,  Gowan  had  been 
undecided  whether  to  kick  him  or  encourage  him  ;  and  had 
remained,  for  about  four-and-twenty  hours,  so  troubled  to 
settle  the  point  to  his  satisfaction,  that  he  had  thought  of 
tossing  up  a  five-franc  piece  on  the  terms,  **  Tails,  kick  ; 
heads,  encourage,"  and  abiding  by  the  voice  of  the  oracle. 
It  chanced,  however,  that  his  wife  expressed  a  dislike  to  the 
engaging  Blandois,  and  that  the  balance  of  feeling  in  the 
hotel  was  against  him.  Upon  that  Gowan  resolved  to 
encourage  him. 

Why  this  perversity,  if  it  were  not  in  a  generous  fit  ? — 
which  it  was  not.  Why  should  Gowan,  very  much  the 
superior  of  Blandois  of  Paris,  and  very  well  able  to  pull  that 
prepossessing  gentleman  to  pieces,  and  find  out  the  stuff  he 
was  made  of,  take  up  with  such  a  man  ?  In  the  first  place, 
he  opposed  the  first  separate  wish  he  observed  in  his  wife, 
because  her  father  had  paid  his  debts,  and  it  was  desirable 
to  take  an  early  opportunity  of  asserting  his  independence. 
In  the  second  place,  he  opposed  the  prevalent  feeling, 
because,  with  many  capacities  of  being  otherwise,  he  was  an 
ill-conditioned  man.  He  found  a  pleasure  in  declaring  that 
a  courtier  with  the  refined  manners  of  Blandois  ought  to 
rise  to  the  greatest  distinction  in  any  polished  country.  He 
found  a  pleasure  in  setting  up  Blandois  as  the  type  of  ele- 
gance, and  making  him  a  satire  upon  others  who  piqued 
themselves  on  personal  graces.  He  seriously  protested  that 
the  bow  of  Blandois  was  perfect,  that  the  address  of  Blan- 
dois was  irresistible,  and  that  the  picturesque  ease  of  Blan- 
dois would  be  cheaply  purchased  (if  it  were  not  a  gift,  and 
unpurchasable)  for  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  That 
exaggeration  in  the  manner  of  the  man,  which  has  been 
noticed  as  appertaining  to  him  and  to  every  such  man,  what- 
ever his  original  breeding,  as  certainly  as  the  sun  belongs  to 
this  system,  was  acceptable  to  Gowan  as  a  caricature,  which 
he  found  it  a  humorous  resource  to  have  at  hand  for  the 
ridiculing  of  numbers  of  people  who  necessarily  did  more  or 
less  of  what  Blandois  overdid.  Thus  he  had  taken  up  with 
him  ;  and  thus,  negligently  strengthening  these  inclinations 
with  habit,  and  idly  deriving  some  amusement  from  his  talk, 
he  had  glided  into  a  way  of  having  him  for  a  companion. 
This  though  he  supposed  him  to  live  by  his  wits  at  play- 
tables  and  the  like  ;  though  he  suspected  him  to  be  a  coward, 
while  he  himself  was  daring  and  courageous  ;  though  h^ 
thoroughly  knew  him  to  be  disliked  by  Minnie  ;  and  thougK 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  491 

he  cared  so  little  for  him,  after  all,  that  if  he  had  given  her 
any  tangible  personal  cause  to  regard  him  with  aversion,  he 
would  have  had  no  compunction  whatever  in  flinging  him 
out  of  the  highest  window  in  Venice,  into  the  deepest  water 
of  the  city. 

Little  Dorrit  would  have  been  glad  to  make  her  visit  to 
Mrs.  Gowan,  alone ;  but  as  Fanny,  who  had  not  yet 
recovered  from  her  uncle's  protest,  though  it  was  four-and- 
twenty  hours  of  age,  pressingly  offered  her  company,  the 
two  sisters  stepped  together  into  one  of  the  gondolas  under 
Mr.  Dorrit's  window,  and,  with  the  courier  in  attendance, 
were  taken  in  high  state  to  Mrs.  Gowan's  lodging.  In  truth 
their  state  was  rather  too  high  for  the  lodging,  which  was, 
as  Fanny  complained,  "  fearfully  out  of  the  way,"  and  which 
took  them  through  a  complexity  of  narrow  streets  of  water, 
which  the  same  lady  disparaged  as  "  mere  ditches." 

The  house,  on  a  little  desert  island,  looked  as  if  it  had 
broken  away  from  somewhere  else,  and  had  floated  by  chance 
into  its  present  anchorage,  in  company  with  a  vine  almost  as 
much  in  w^ant  of  training  as  the  poor  wretches  who  were  lying 
under  its  leaves.  The  features  of  the  surrounding  picture 
were,  a  church  with  hoarding  and  scaffolding  about  it,  which 
had  been  under  supposititious  repair  so  long  that  the  means 
of  repair  looked  a  hundred  years  old,  and  had  themselves 
fallen  into  decay  ;  a  quantity  of  washed  linen,  spread  to  dry 
in  the  sun  ;  a  number  of  houses  at  odds  with  one  another  and 
grotesquely  out  of  the  perpendicular,  like  rotten  pre-Adamite 
cheese  cut  into  fantastic  shapes  and  full  of  mites  ;  and  a 
feverish  bewilderment  of  windows  with  their  lattice-blinds 
all  hanging  askew,  and  something  draggled  and  dirty  dang- 
ling out  of  most  of  them. 

On  the  first  floor  of  the  house  was  a  bank — a  surprising 
experience  for  any  gentleman  of  commercial  pursuits  bringing 
laws  for  all  mankind  from  a  British  city — where  two  spare 
clerks,  like  dried  dragoons,  in  green  velvet  caps  adorned  with 
golden  tassels,  stood,  bearded,  behind  a  small  counter  in  a 
small  room,  containing  no  other  visible  objects  than  an  empty 
iron  safe,  with  the  door  open,  a  jug  of  water,  and  a  papering 
of  garlands  of  roses  ;  but  who,  on  lawful  requisition,  by  merely 
dipping  their  hands  out  of  sight,  could  produce  exhaustless 
mounds  of  five-franc  pieces.  Below  the  bank,  was  a  suite  of 
three  or  four  rooms  with  barred  windows,  which  had  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  jail  for  criminal  rats.  Above  the  bank  was 
Mrs.  Gowan's  residence. 


492  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Notwithstanding  that  its  walls  were  blotched,  as  if  mis- 
sionary maps  were  bursting  out  of  them  to  impart  geograph- 
ical knowledge  ;  notwithstanding  that  its  weird  furniture  was 
forlornly  faded  and  musty,  and  that  the  prevailing  Venetian 
odor  of  bilge  water  and  an  ebb  tide  on  a  weedy  shore  was 
very  strong  ;  the  place  was  better  within,  than  it  promised. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  smiling  man  like  a  reformed  as- 
sassin— a  temporary  servant — who  ushered  them  into  the 
.  room  where  Mrs.  Gowan  sat  :  with  the  announcement  that 
two  beautiful  English  ladies  were  come  to  see  the  mistress. 

Mrs.  Gowan,  who  was  engaged  in  needlework,  put  her 
work  aside  in  a  covered  basket,  and  rose,  a  little  hurriedly. 
Miss  Fanny  was  excessively  courteous  to  her,  and  said  the 
usual  nothings  with  the  skill  of  a  veteran. 

*'  Papa  was  extremely  sorry,"  proceeded  Fanny,  "  to  be 
engaged  to-day  (he  is  so  much  engaged  here,  our  acquaint- 
ance being  so  wretchedly  large  ! );  and  particularly  requested 
me  to  bring  his  card  for  Mr.  Gowan.  That  I  may  be  sure 
to  acquit  myself  of  a  commission  which  he  impressed  upon 
me  at  least  a  dozen  times,  allow  me  to  relieve  my  con- 
science by  placing  it  on  the  table  at  once." 

Which  she  did  with  veteran  ease. 

*'  We  have  been,"  said  Fanny,  "  charmed  to  understand 
that  you  know  the  Merdles.  We  hope  it  may  be  another 
means  of  bringing  us  together." 

"  They  are  friends,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  **  of  Mr.  Gowan's 
family.  I  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  a  personal  intro- 
duction to  Mrs.  Merdle,  but  I  suppose  I  shall  be  presented 
to  her  at  Rome." 

**  Indeed  ?"  returned  Fanny,  with  an  appearance  of  ami- 
ably quenching  her  own  superiority.  "  I  think  you'll  like 
her." 

"  You  know  her  very  well  ?" 

"Why,  you  see,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  frank  action  of  her 
pretty  shoulders,  "  in  London  one  knows  every  one.  We  met 
her  on  our  way  here,  and,  to  say  the  truth,  papa  was  at  first 
rather  cross  with  her  for  taking  one  of  the  rooms  that  our 
people  had  ordered  for  us.  However,  of  course  that  soon 
blew  over,  and  we  were  all  good  friends  again." 

Although  the  visit  had,  as  yet,  given  Little  Dorrit  no  op- 
portunity of  conversing  with  Mrs.  Gowan,  there  was  a  silent 
understanding  between  them,  which  did  as  well.  She 
looked  at  Mrs.  Gowan  with  keen  and  unabated  interest  ;  the 
sound  of  her  voice  was  thrilling  to  her  ;  nothing  that  was 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  493 

near  her,  or  about  her,  or  at  all  concerned  her,  escaped  Lit- 
tie  Dorrit.  She  was  quicker  to  perceive  the  slightest  matter 
here,  than  in  any  other  case — but  one. 

"  You  have  been  quite  well,"  she  now  said,  **  since  that 
night  ?" 

'*  Quite,  my  dear.     And  you  ?" 

"  Oh  !  1  am  always  well,'*  said  Little  Dorrit,  timidly. 
"  I — yes,  thank  you." 

There  was  no  reason  for  her  faltering  and  breaking  off, 
other  than  that  Mrs.  Gowan  had  touched  her  hand  in  speak- 
ing to  her,  and  their  looks  had  met.  Something  thoughtfully 
apprehensive  in  the  large,  soft  eyes,  had  checked  Little  Dor- 
rit in  an  instant. 

*'  You  don't  know  that  you  are  a  favorite  of  my  husband's, 
and  that  I  am  almost  bound  to  be  jealous  of  you  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Gowan. 

Little  Dorrit  blushing,  shook  her  head. 

"  He  will  tell  you,  if  he  tells  ycu  what  he  tells  me,  that 
you  are  quieter  and  quicker  of  resource,  than  any  one  he 
ever  saw." 

"  He  speaks  far  too  well  of  me,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

**  I  doubt  that;  but  I  don't  at  all  doubt  that  I  must  tell 
him  you  are  here.  I  should  never  be  forgiven,  if  I  were  to 
let  you — and  Miss  Dorrit — go,  without  doing  so.  May  I  ? 
You  can  excuse  the  disorder  and  discomfort  of  a  painter's 
studio  ?  " 

The  inquiries  were  addressed  to  Miss  Fanny,  who  gra- 
ciously replied  that  she  would  be  beyond  any  thing  interested 
and  enchanted.  Mrs.  Gowan  went  to  a  door,  looked  in 
beyond  it,  and  came  back.  "  Do  Henry  the  favor  to  come 
in,"  said  she,  "  I  knew  he  would  be  pleased  !  " 

The  first  object  that  confronted  Little  Dorrit,  entering 
first,  was  Blandois  of  Paris  in  a  great  cloak  and  a  furtive 
slouched  hat,  standing  on  a  throne  platform  in  a  corner,  as 
he  had  stood  on  the  Great  Saint  Bernard,  when  the  warning 
arms  seemed  to  be  all  pointing  up  at  him.  She  recoiled 
from  this  figure,  as  it  smiled  at  her. 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Gowan,  coming  from  his  easel 
behind  the  door.  "  It's  only  Blandois.  He  is  doing  duty 
as  a  model  to-day.  I  am  making  a  study  of  him.  It  saves 
me  money  to  turn  him  to  some  use.  We  poor  painters  have 
none  to  spare." 

Blandois  of  Paris  pulled  off  his  slouched  hat,  and  saluted 
the  ladies  without  coming  out  of  his  corner. 


494  LITTLE  DORRIT 

"A  thousand  pardons!"  said  he.  **  But  the  professor 
here,  is  so  inexorable  with  me,  that  I  am  afraid  to  stir." 

"  Don't  stir,  then,"  said  Gowan  coolly,  as  the  sisters 
approached  the  easel.  **  Let  the  ladies  at  least  see  the  original 
of  the  daub,  that  they  may  know  what  it's  meant  for.  There 
he  stands,  you  see.  A  bravo  waiting  for  his  prey,  a  distin- 
guished noble  waiting  to  save  his  country,  the  common  enemy 
waiting  to  do  somebody  a  bad  turn,  an  angelic  messenger 
waiting  to  do  somebody  a  good  turn — whatever  you  think 
he  looks  most  like  !  '* 

''Say,  Professor  Mio,  a  poor  gentleman  waiting  to  do 
homage  to  elegance  and  beauty,"  remarked  Blandois. 

"  Or  say,  Cattivo  Soggetto  Mio,"  returned  Gowan,  touch- 
ing the  painted  face  with  his  brush  in  the  part  where  the 
real  face  had  moved,  "  a  murderer  after  the  fact.  Show 
that  white  hand  of  yours,  Blandois.  Put  it  outside  the  cloak. 
Keep  it  still." 

Blandois's  hand  was  unsteady;  but  he  laughed,  and  that 
would  naturally  shake  it. 

"  He  was  formerly  in  some  scuffle  with  another  murderer, 
or  with  a  victim,  you  observe,"  said  Gowan,  putting  in  the 
markings  of  the  hand  with  a  quick,  impatient,  unskillful 
touch,  "  and  these  are  the  tokens  of  it.  Outside  the 
cloak,  man  !— Corpo  di  San  Marco,  what  are  you  thinking 
of!" 

Blandois  of  Paris  shook  with  a  laugh  again,  so  that  his 
hand  shook  more;  now  he  raised  it  to  twist  his  mustache, 
which  had  a  damp  appearance  ;  and  now  he  stood  in  the 
required  position,  with  a  little  new  swagger. 

His  face  was  so  directed  in  reference  to  the  spot  where 
Little  Dorrit  stood  by  the  easel,  that  throughout  he  looked 
at  her.  Once  attracted  by  his  peculiar  eyes,  she  could  not 
remove  her  own,  and  they  had  looked  at  each  other  all  the 
time.  She  trembled  now  ;  Gowan,  feeling  it,  and  supposing 
her  to  be  alarmed  by  the  large  dog  beside  him,  whose  head 
she  caressed  in  her  hand,  and  who  had  just  uttered  a  low 
growl,  glanced  at  her  to  say,  "He  won't  hurt  you,  Miss 
Dorrit." 

''  I  am  not  afraid  of  him,"  she  returned,  in  the  same 
breath  ;  "  but  will  you  look  at  him  ? " 

In  a  moment  Gowan  had  thrown  down  his  brush,  and 
seized  the  dog  with  both  hands  by  the  collar. 

"  Blandois  !  How  can  you  be  such  a  fool  as  to  provoke 
him  !     By  heaven,  and  the  other  place  too,  he'll  tear  yon 


LITTLE  DORRir.  495 

* 

to  bits  !  Lie  down  !  Lion  !  Do  you  hear  my  voice,  you 
rebel  !  " 

The  great  dog,  regardless  of  being  half-choked  by  his  col- 
lar, was  obdurately  pulling  with  his  dead  weight  against  his 
master,  resolved  to  get  across  the  room.  He  had  been 
crouching  for  a  spring,  at  the  moment  when  his  master 
caught  him. 

"  Lion  1  Lion  !  **  He  was  up  on  his  hind  legs,  and  it 
was  a  wrestle  between  master  and  dog.  *'  Get  back  !  Down, 
Lion  !  Get  out  of  his  sight,  Blandois  !  What  devil  have 
you  conjured  into  the  dog?" 

"  I  have  done  nothing  to  him." 

"  Get  out  of  his  sight  or  I  can't  hold  the  wild  beast !  Get 
out  of  the  room  !     By  my  soul,  he'll  kill  you  !  " 

The  dog,  with  a  ferocious  bark,  made  one  other  struggle, 
as  Blandois  vanished;  then,  in  the  moment  of  the  dog's  sub- 
mission, the  master,  little  less  angry  than  the  dog,  felled 
him  with  a  blow  on  the  head,  and  standing  over  him,  struck 
him  many  times  severely  with  the  heel  of  his  boot,  so  that 
his  mouth  was  presently  bloody. 

**  Now  get  you  into  that  corner  and  lie  down,*'  said  Gowan, 
"  or  I'll  take  you  out  and  shoot  you." 

Lion  did  as  he  was  ordered,  and  lay  down  licking  his 
moutn  and  chest.  Lion's  master  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  take  breath,  and  then,  recovering  his  usual  coolness  of 
manner,  turned  to  speak  to  his  frightened  wife  and  her 
visitors.  Probably  the  whole  occurrence  had  not  occupied 
two  minutes. 

"  Come,  come,  Minnie  !  You  know  he  is  always  good- 
humored  and  tractable.  Blandois  must  have  irritated  him, 
— made  faces  at  him.  The  dog  has  his  likings  and  dislik- 
ings,  and  Blandois  is  no  great  favorite  of  his  ;  but  I  am  sure 
you'll  give  him  a  character,  Minnie,  for  never  having  been  like 
this  before." 

Minnie  was  too  much  disturbed  to  say  any  thing  con- 
nected in  reply ;  Little  Dorrit  was  already  occupied  in 
soothing  her  ;  Fanny,  who  had  cried  out  twice  or  thrice, 
held  Gowan's  arm  for  protection  ;  Lion,  deeply  ashamed  of 
having  caused  them  this  alarm,  came  trailing  himself  along 
the  ground,  to  the  feet  of  his  mistress. 

**  You  furious  brute,"  said  Gowan,  striking  him  with  his 
foot  again.  "  You  shall  do  penance  for  this."  And  he 
struck  him  again,  and  yet  again. 

*^  Oh,  pray  don't  punish  him  any  more,"  cried  Little  Dorrit. 


496  LITTLE  DORRIT, 

**  Don't  hurt  him.  See  how  gentle  he  is  !  "  At  her  entreaty, 
Gowan  spared  him  ;  and  he  deserved  her  intercession,  for 
truly  he  was  as  submissive,  and  as  sorry,  and  as  wretched  as 
a  dog  could  be. 

It  was  not  easy  to  recover  this  shock  and  make  the  visit 
unrestrained,  even  though  Fanny  had  not  been,  under  the 
best  of  circumstances,  the  least  trifle  in  the  way.  In  such 
further  communication  as  passed  among  them  before  the  sis- 
ters took  their  departure,  Little  Dorrit  fancied  it  was  re- 
vealed to  her  that  Mr.  Gowan  treated  his  wife,  even  in  his 
v^ry  fondness,  too  much  like  a  beautiful  child.  He  seemed 
so  unsuspicious  of  the  depths  of  feeling  which  she  knew 
must  lie  below  that  surface,  that  she  doubted  if  there  could 
be  any  such  depths  in  himself.  She  wondered  whether  his 
want  of  earnestness  might  be  the  natural  result  of  his  want 
of  such  qualities,  and  whether  it  was  with  people  as  with 
ships,  that,  in  too  shallow  and  rocky  waters,  their  anchors 
had  no  hold,  and  they  drifted  anywhere. 

He  attended  them  down  the  staircase,  jocosely  apologizing 
for  the  poor  quarters  to  which  such  poor  fellows  as  himself 
were  limited,  and  remarking  that  when  the  high  and  mighty 
Barnacles,  his  relatives,  who  would  be  dreadfully  ashamed 
of  them,  presented  him  with  better,  he  would  live  in  better 
to  oblige  them.  At  the  water's  edge  they  were  saluted  by 
Blandois,  who  looked  white  enough  after  his  late  adventure, 
but  who  made  very  light  of  it  notwithstanding — laughing  at 
the  mention  of  Lion. 

Leaving  the  two  together,  under  the  scrap  of  vine  upon 
the  causeway,  Gowan  idly  scattering  the  leaves  from  it  into 
the  water,  and  Blandois  lighting  a  cigarette,  the  sisters  were 
paddled  away  in  state  as  they  had  come.  They  had  not 
glided  on  for  many  minutes,  when  Little  Dorrit  became  aware 
that  Fanny  was  more  showy  in  manner  than  the  occasion 
appeared  to  require,  and,  looking  about  for  the  cause,  through 
the  window  and  through  the  open  door,  saw  another  gondola 
evidently  in  waiting  on  them. 

As  this  gondola  attended  their  progress  in  various  artful 
ways ;  sometimes  shooting  on  a-head,  and  stopping  to  let 
them  pass  ;  sometimes,  when  the  way  was  broad  enough, 
skimming  along  side  by  side  with  them  ;  and  sometimes  fol- 
lowing close  astern*  and  as  Fanny  gradually  made  no  disguise 
that  she  was  playing  off  graces  upon  somebody  within  it,  of 
whom  she  at  the  same  time  feigned  to  be  unconscious-;  Lit- 
tle Dorrit  at  length  asked  who  it  was  ? 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  497 

To  which  Fanny  made  the  short  answer,  "  That  gaby." 

"  Who  ? "  said  Little  Dorrit. 

''  My  dear  child/'  returned  Fanny  (in  a  tone  suggesting 
that  before  her  uncle's  protest  she  might  have  said,  You  lit- 
tle fool,  instead),  "  how  slow  you  are  !    Young  Sparkler." 

She  lowered  the  window  on  her  side,  and,  leaning  back 
and  resting  her  elbow  on  it  negligently,  fanned  herself  with 
a  rich  Spanish  fan  of  black  and  gold.  The  attendant  gon- 
dola, having  skimmed  forward  again,  with  some  swift  trace 
of  an  eye  in  the  window,  Fanny  laughed  coquettishly  and 
said,  "  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  fool,  my  love  ?  " 

*'  Do  you  think  he  means  to  follow  you  all  the  way  ? " 
asked  Little  Dorrit. 

"  My  precious  child,"  returned  Fanny,  "  I  can't  possibly 
answer  for  what  an  idiot  in  a  state  of  desperation  may  do, 
but  I  should  think  it  highly  probable.  It's  not  such  an  enor- 
mous distance.  All  Venice  would  scarcely  be  that,  I  imag- 
ine, if  he's  dying  for  a  glimpse  of  me." 

"And  is  he?"  asked  Little  Dorrit,  in  perfect  simplicity. 

"  Well,  my  love,  that  really  is  an  awkward  question  for  me 
to  answer,"  said  the  sister.  "  I  believe  he  is.  You  had  bet- 
ter ask  Edward.  He  tells  Edward  he  is,  I  believe.  I  under- 
stand he  makes  a  perfect  spectacle  of  himself  at  the  Casino, 
and  that  sort  of  places,  by  going  on  about  me.  But  you  had 
better  ask  Edward,  if  you  want  to  know." 

"  I  wonder  he  doesn't  call,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  after  think- 
ing a  moment. 

"  My  dear  Amy,  your  wonder  will  soon  cease,  if  I  am 
rightly  informed.  I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised  if  he  called 
to-day.  The  creature  has  only  been  waiting  to  get  his  cour- 
age up,  I  suspect." 

"  Will  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  my  darling,"  said  Fanny,  "  that's  just  as  it  may 
happen.  Here  he  is  again.  Look  at  him.  Oh,  you  sim- 
pleton !  " 

Mr.  Sparkler  had,  undeniably,  a  weak  appearance  ;  with 
his  eye  in  the  window,  like  a  knot  in  the  glass,  and  no  rea- 
son on  earth  for  stopping  his  bark  suddenly,  except  the  real 
reason. 

"  When  you  ask  me  if  I  will  see  him,  my  dear,"  said 
Fanny,  almost  as  well  composed  in  the  graceful  indifference 
of  her  attitude  as  Mrs.  Merdle  herself,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean,"  said  Little  Dorrit — '*  I  think  I  rather  mean — 
what  do  you  mean,  dear  Fanny  ? " 


498  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Fanny  laughed  again,  in  a  manner  at  once  condescending, 
arch  and  affable  ;  and  said,  putting  her  arm  round  her  sister, 
in  a  playfully  affectionate  way  : 

*'  Now  tell  me,  my  little  pet.  When  we  saw  that  woman  at 
Martigny,  how  did  you  think  she  carried  it  off  ?  Did  you  see 
what  she  decided  on  in  a  moment  ? " 

"  No,  Fanny." 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you.  Amy.  She  settled  with  herself,  now 
I'll  never  refer  to  that  meeting  under  such  different  circum- 
stances, and  I'll  never  pretend  to  have  any  idea  that  these 
are  the  same  girls.  That's  her  way  out  of  a  dificulty.  What 
did  I  tell  you  when  we  came  away  from  Harley  Street  that 
time  ?  She  is  as  insolent  and  false  as  any  woman  in  the 
world.  But  in  the  first  capacity,  my  love,  she  may  find 
people  who  can  match  her." 

A  significant  turn  of  the  Spanish  fan  toward  Fanny's 
bosom,  indicated  with  great  expression,  where  one  of  these 
people  was  to  be  found. 

"  Not  only  that,"  pursued  Fanny,  "but  she  gives  the  same 
charge  to  young  Sparkler ;  and  doesn't  let  him  come  after 
me  until  she  has  got  it  thoroughly  into  his  most  ridiculous 
of  all  ridiculous  noddles  (for  one  really  can't  call  it  a  head), 
that  he  is  to  pretend  to  have  been  first  struck  with  me  in  that 
inn  yard." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Little  Dorrit. 

*'  Why  ?  Good  gracious,  my  love  !  '*  (again  very  much  in 
the  tone  of.  You  stupid  little  creature)  "  how  can  you  ask } 
Don't  you  see  that  I  may  have  become  a  rather  desirable 
match  for  a  noodle  ?  And  don't  you  see  that  she  puts  the 
deception  upon  us,  and  makes  a  pretense,  while  she  shifts  it 
from  her  own  shoulders  (very  good  shoulders  they  are,  too, 
I  must  say),"  observed  Miss  Fanny,  glancing  complacently 
at  herself,  "  of  considering  our  feelings." 

"  But  we  can  always  go  back  to  the  plain  truth." 

"  Yes,  but  if  you  please  we  won't,"  retorted  Fanny.  "  No  ; 
I  am  not  going  to  have  that  done,  Amy.  The  pretext  is  none 
of  mine  ;  it's  hers,  and  she  shall  have  enough  of  it." 

In  the  triumphant  exaltation  of  her  feelings.  Miss  Fanny, 
using  her  Spanish  fan  with  one  hand,  squeezed  her  sister's 
wrist  with  the  other,  as  if  she  were  crushing  Mrs.  Merdle. 

"  No,"  repeated  Fanny.  "  She  shall  find  me  go  her  way. 
She  took  it,  and  I'll  follow  it.  And,  with  the  blessing  of  fate 
and  fortune,  I'll  go  on  improving  that  woman's  acquaintance 
until  I  have  given  her  maid,  before  her  eyes,  things  from  my 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  499 

dress-maker's  ten  times  as  handsome  and  expensive  as  she 
once  gave  me  from  hers." 

Little  Dorrit  was  silent  :  sensible  that  she  was  not  co  be 
heard  on  any  question  affecting  the  family  dignity  ;  and  un- 
willing to  lose,  to  no  purpose,  her  sister's  newly  and  unex- 
pectedly restored  favor.  She  could  not  concur,  but  she  was 
silent.  Fanny  well  knew  what  she  was  thinking  of  ;  so  well 
that  she  soon  asked  her. 

Her  reply  was,  "  Do  you  mean  to  encourage  Mr.  Sparkler, 
Fanny?" 

*^  Encourage  him,  my  dear  ?  "  said  her  sister,  smiling  con- 
temptuously, '*  that  depends  upon  what  you  call  encourage. 
No,  I  don't  mean  to  encourage  him.  But  Fll  make  a  slave 
of  him." 

Little  Dorrit  glanced  seriously  and  doubtfully  in  her  face, 
but  Fanny  was  not  to  be  so  brought  to  a  check.  She  furled 
her  fan  of  black  and  gold,  and  used  it  to  tap  her  sister's 
nose  :  with  the  air  of  a  proud  beauty  and  a  great  spirit, 
who  toyed  with  and  playfully  instructed  a  homely  com- 
panion. 

*'  I  shall  make  him  fetch  and  carry,  my  dear,  and  I  shall 
make  him  subject  to  me.  And  if  I  don't  make  his  mother 
subject  to  me,  too,  it  shall  not  be  my  fault." 

"  Do  you  think — dear  Fanny,  don't  be  offended,  we  are  so 
comfortable  together  now — that  you  can  quite  see  the  end  ot 
that  course  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  I  have  so  much  as  looked  for  it  yet,  my 
dear,"  answered  Fanny,  with  supreme  indifference  ;  ^^  all  in 
good  time.  Such  are  my  intentions.  And  really  they  have 
taken  me  so  long  to  develop,  that  here  we  are  at  home.  And 
Young  Sparkler  at  the  door,  inquiring  who  is  within.  By 
the  merest  accident,  of  course  !  " 

In  effect,  the  swain  was  standing  up  in  his  gondola,  card- 
case  in  hand,  affecting  to*put  the  question  to  a  servant. 
This  conjunction  of  circumstances  led  to  his  immediately 
afterward  presenting  himself  before  the  young  ladies  in  a 
posture,  which,  in  ancient  times,  would  have  been  con- 
sidered one  of  favorable  augury  for  his  suit ;  since  the 
gondoliers  of  the  young  ladies,  having  been  put  to  some  in- 
convenience by  the  chase,  so  neatly  brought  their  own  boat 
in  the  gentlest  collision  with  the  bark  of  Mr.  Sparkler,  as  to 
tip  that  gentleman  over  like  a  larger  species  of  ninepin,  and 
cause  him  to  exhibit  the  soles  of  his  shoes  to  the  object  of 
his  dearest  wishes  ;  while  the  nobler  portions  of  his  anatomy 


500  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

struggled  at  the  bottom  of  his  boat,  in  the  arms  of  one  oi 
his  men. 

However,  as  Miss  Fanny  called  out  with  much  concern, 
Was  the  gentleman  hurt  ?  Mr.  Sparkler  rose  more  restored 
than  might  have  been  expected,  and  stammered  for  himself 
with  blushes,  "  Not  at  all  so."  Miss  Fanny  had  no  recol- 
lection of  having  ever  seen  him  before,  and  was  passing  on, 
with  a  distant  inclination  of  the  head,  when  he  announced 
himself  by  name.  Even  then  she  was  in  a  difficulty  from 
being  unable  to  call  it  to  mind,  until  he  explained  that  he 
had  had  the  honor  of  seeing  her  at  Martigny.  Then  she 
remembered  him,  and  hoped  his  lady-mother  was  well. 

^^  Thank  you,"  stammered  Mr.  Sparkler,  "  she's  uncom- 
monly well — at  least,  poorly." 

"In  Venice?"  said  Miss  Fanny. 

"  In  Rome,"  Mr.  Sparkler  answered.  "  I  am  here  by  my- 
self, myself.  I  came  to  call  upon  Mr.  Edward  Dorrit  my- 
self. Indeed,  upon  Mr.  Dorrit  likewise.  In  fact,  upon  the 
family." 

Turning  graciously  to  the  attendants.  Miss  Fanny  in- 
quired whether  her  papa  or  brother  was  within  ?  The  reply 
being  that  they  were  both  within,  Mr.  Sparkler  humbly 
offered  his  arm.  Miss  Fanny  accepting  it,  was  squired  up 
the  great  staircase  by  Mr.  Sparkler,  who,  if  he  still  believed 
(which  there  is  not  any  reason  to  doubt)  that  she  had  no  non- 
sense about  her,  rather  deceived  himself. 

Arrived  in  a  moldering  reception-room,  where  the  faded 
hangings,  of  a  sad  sea-green,  had  worn  and  withered  until 
they  looked  as  if  they  might  have  claimed  kindred  with  the 
waifs  of  seaweed  drifting  under  the  windows,  or  clinging  to 
the  walls  and  weeping  for  their  imprisoned  relations,  Miss 
Fanny  dispatched  emissaries  for  her  father  and  brother. 
Pending  whose  appearance,  she  showed  to  great  advantage 
on  a  sofa,  completing  Mr.  Sp^kler's  conquest  with  some 
remarks  upon  Dante — known  to  that  gentleman  as  an  eccen- 
tric man  in  the  nature  of  an  Old  File,  who  used  to  put  leaves 
round  his  head,  and  sit  upon  a  stool  for  some  unaccountable 
purpose,  outside  the  cathedral  at  Florence. 

Mr.  Dorrit  welcomed  the  visitor  with  the  highest  urbanity, 
and  most  courtly  manners.  He  inquired  particularly  after 
Mrs.  Merdle.  He  inquired  particularly  after  Mr.  Merdle. 
Mr.  Sparkler  said,  or  rather  twitched  out  of  himself  in  small 
pieces  by  the  shirt-collar,  that  Mrs.  Merdle  having  com- 
pletely used  up  her  place  in  the  country,  and  also  her  house 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  50T 

at  Brighton,  and  being,  of  course,  unable,  don't  you  see,  to 
remain  in  London  when  there  wasn't  a  soul  there,  and  not 
feeling  herself  this  year  quite  up  to  visiting  about  at  people's 
places,  had  resolved  to  have  a  touch  at  Rome,  where  a 
woman  like  herself,  with  a  proverbially  fine  appearance,  and 
with  no  nonsense  about  her,  couldn't  fail  to  be  a  great  acquisi- 
tion. As  to  Mr.  Merdle,  he  was  so  much  wanted  by  the 
men  in  the  city  and  the  rest  of  those  places,  and  was  such  a 
doosed  extraordinary  phenomenon  in  buying  and  banking 
and  that,  that  Mr.  Sparkler  doubted  if  the  monetary  system 
of  the  country  would  be  able  to  spare  him  :  though  that  his 
work  was  occasionally  one  too  many  for  him,  and  that  he 
would  be  all  the  better  for  a  temporary  shy  at  an  entirely 
new  scene  and  climate,  Mr.  Sparkler  did  not  conceal.  As 
to  himself,  Mr.  Sparkler  conveyed  to  the  Dorrit  family  that 
he  was  going,  on  rather  particular  business,  wherever  they 
were  going. 

This  immense  conversational  achievement  required  time, 
but  was  effected.  Being  effected,  Mr.  Dorrit  expressed  his 
hope  that  Mr.  Sparkler  would  shortly  dine  with  them.  Mr. 
Sparkler  received  the  idea  so  kindly,  that  Mr.  Dorrit  asked 
what  he  was  going  to  do  that  day  for  instance  ?  As  he  was 
going  to  do  nothing  that  day  (his  usual  occupation,  and  one 
for  which  he  was  particularly  qualified),  he  was  secured  with- 
out postponement  ;  being  further  bound  over  to  accompany 
the  ladies  to  the  opera  in  the  evening. 

At  dinner-time  Mr.  Sparkler  rose  out  of  the  sea,  like 
Venus's  son  taking  after  his  mother,  and  made  a  splendid 
appearance  ascending  the  great  staircase.  If  Fanny  had 
been  charming  in  the  morning,  she  was  now  thrice  charming, 
very  becomingly  dressed  in  her  most  suitable  colors,  and  with 
an  air  of  negligence  upon  her  that  doubled  Mr.  Sparkler's 
fetters,  and  riveted  them. 

"  I  hear  you  are  acquainted,  Mr.  Sparkler,"  said  his  host 
at  dinner,  "with — ha — Mr.  Gowan.     Mr.  Henry  Gowan  ?" 

'*  Perfectly,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Sparkler.  "  His  mother 
and  my  mother  are  cronies,  in  fact." 

*^If  I  had  thought  of  it.  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a 
patronage  as  magnificent  as  that  of  Lord  Decimus  himself, 
'*  you  should  have  dispatched  a  note  to  them,  asking  them  to 
dine  to-day.  Some  of  our  people  could  have — ha — fetched 
them,  and  taken  them  home.  We  could  have  spared  a — hum 
— gondola  for  that  purpose.  I  am  sorry  to  have  forgotten 
this.     Pray  remind  me  of  them  to-morrow." 


502  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Little  Dorrit  was  not  without  doubts  how  Mr.  Henry 
Gowan  might  take  their  patronage  ;  but  she  promised  not 
to  fail  in  the  reminder. 

"  Pray,  does  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  paint — ha — portraits  ?  " 
inquired  Mr.  Dorrit. 

Mr.  Sparkler  opined  that  he  painted  any  thing,  if  he  could 
get  the  job. 

"  He  has  no  particular  walk  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit. 

Mr.  Sparkler,  stimulated  by  love  to  brilliancy,  replied  that 
for  a  particular  walk,  a  man  ought  to  have  a  particular  pair 
of  shoes  :  as,  for  example,  shooting,  shooting-shoes  !  cricket, 
cricket-shoes.  Whereas,  he  believed  that  Henry  Gowan  had 
no  particular  pair  of  shoes. 

^^  No  specialty  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit. 

This  being  a  very  long  word  for  Mr.  Sparkler,  and  his 
mind  being  exhausted  by  his  late  effort,  he  replied,  "  No, 
thank  you.     I  seldom  take  it." 

^*  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  It  would  be  very  agreeable 
to  me,  to  present  a  gentleman  so  connected,  with  some — ha 
— testimonial  of  my  desire  to  further  his  interests,  and  de- 
velop the — hum — germs  of  his  genius.  I  think  I  must 
engage  Mr.  Gowan  to  paint  my  picture.  If  the  result  should 
be — ha — mutually  satisfactory,  I  might  afterward  engage 
him  to  try  his  hand  upon  my  family." 

The  exquisitely  bold  and  original  thought  presented  itself 
to  Mr.  Sparkler,  that  there  was  an  opening  here  for  saying 
there  were  some  of  the  family  (emphasizing  "  some  "  in  a 
marked  manner)  to  whom  no  painter  could  render  justice. 
But,  for  want  of  a  form  of  words  in  which  to  express  the  idea, 
it  returned  to  the  skies. 

This  was  the  more  to  be  regretted  as  Miss  Fanny  greatly 
applauded  the  notion  of  the  portrait,  and  urged  her  papa  to 
act  upon  it.  She  surmised,  she  said,  that  Mr.  Gowan  had 
lost  better  and  higher  opportunities  by  marrying  his  pretty 
wife  ;  and  love  in  a  cottage,  painting  pictures  for  dinner, 
was  so  delightfully  interesting,  that  she  begged  her  papa  to 
give  him  the  commission  whether  he  could  paint  a  likeness 
or  not  :  though  indeed  both  she  and  Amy  knew  he  could, 
from  having  seen  a  speaking  likeness  on  his  easel  that  day, 
and  having  had  the  opportunity  of  comparing  it  with  the 
original.  These  remarks  made  Mr  Sparkler  (as  perhaps 
they  were  intended  to  do)  nearly  distracted  ;  for  while  on 
the  one  hand  they  expressed  Miss  Fanny's  susceptibility  of 
the  tender  passion,  she  herself  showed   such    an  innocent 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  503 

unconsciousness  of  his  admiration,  that  his  eyes  goggled  in 
his  head  with  jealousy  of  an  unknown  rival. 

Descending  into  the  sea  again  after  dinner,  and  ascending 
out  of  it  at  the  opera  staircase,  preceded  by  one  of  their  gon- 
doliers, like  an  attendant  merman,  with  a  great  linen  lantern, 
they  entered  their  box,  and  Mr.  Sparkler  entered  on  an  even- 
ing of  agony.  The  theater  being  dark,  and  the  box  light, 
several  visitors  lounged  in  during  the  representation  ;  in 
whom  Fanny  was  so  interested,  and  in  conversation  with 
whom  she  fell  into  such  charming  attitudes,  as  she  had  little 
confidences  with  them,  and  little  disputes  concerning  the 
identity  of  people  in  distant  boxes,  that  the  wretched 
Sparkler  hated  all  mankind.  But  he  had  two  consolations 
at  the  close  of  the  performance.  She  gave  him  her  fan  to 
hold  while  she  adjusted  her  cloak,  and  it  was  his  blessed 
privilege  to  give  her  his  arm  down  stairs  again.  These 
crumbs  of  encouragement,  Mr.  Sparkler  thought,  would  just 
keep  him  going  ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  Miss  Dorrit 
thought  so  too. 

The  merman  with  his  light  was  ready  at  the  box-door,  and 
other  mermen  with  other  lights  were  ready  at  many  of  the 
doors.  The  Dorrit  merman  held  his  lantern  low,  to 
show  the  steps,  and  Mr.  Sparkler  put  on  another  heavy  set 
of  fetters  over  his  former  set,  as  he  watched  her  radiant  feet 
twinkling  down  the  stairs  beside  him.  Among  the  loiterers 
here,  was  Blandois  of  Paris.  He  spoke,  and  moved  forward 
beside  Fanny. 

Little  Dorrit  was  in  front,  with  her  brother  and  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral (Mr.  Dorrit  had  remained  at  home),  but  on  the  brink 
of  the  quay  they  all  came  together.  She  started  again  to 
find  Blandois  close  to  her,  handing  Fanny  into  a  boat. 

*'  Gowan  has  had  a  loss,"  he  said,  "  since  he  was  made 
happy  to-day  by  a  visit  from  fair  ladies." 

"  A  loss  ?  "  repeated  Fanny,  relinquished  by  the  bereaved 
Sparkler,  and  taking  her  seat. 

'*  A  loss,"  said  Blandois.     "  His  dog  Lion.** 

Little  Dorrit's  hand  was  in  his,  as  he  spoke. 

*'  He  is  dead,"  said  Blandois. 

"  Dead  ?  "  echoed  Little  Dorrit.      "  That  noble  dog  ?  " 

"  Faith,  dear  ladies  !  "  said  Blandois,  smiling  and  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  *'  somebody  has  poisoned  that  noble  dog, 
He  is  as  dead  as  the  doges  ! " 


S04  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  VIL 

MOSTLY  PRUNES  AND  PRISM. 

Mrs.  General,  always  on  her  coach-box  keeping  the  pro- 
prieties well  together,  took  pains  to  form  a  surface  on  her 
very  dear  young  friend,  and  Mrs.  General's  very  dear  young 
friend  tried  hard  to  receive  it.  Hard  as  she  had  tried  in 
her  laborious  life  to  attain  many  ends,  she  had  never  tried 
harder  than  she  did  now,  to  be  varnished  by  Mrs.  General. 
It  made  her  anxious  and  ill  at  ease  to  be  operated  upon  by 
that  smoothing  hand,  it  is  true  ;  but  she  submitted  herself 
to  the  family  want  in  its  greatness  as  she  had  submitted  her- 
self to  the  family  want  in  its  littleness,  and  yielded  to  her 
own  inclinations  in  this  thing  no  more  than  she  had  yielded 
to  her  hunger  itself,  in  the  days  when  she  had  saved  her 
dinner  that  her  father  might  have  his  supper. 

One  comfort  that  she  had  under  the  ordeal  by  General 
was  more  sustaining  to  her,  and  made  her  more  grateful 
than  to  a  less  devoted  and  affectionate  spirit,  not  habituated 
to  her  struggles  and  sacrifices,  might  appear  quite  reason- 
able ;  and  indeed,  it  may  often  be  observed  in  life,  that 
spirits  like  Little  Dorrit  do  not  appear  to  reason  half  as 
carefully  as  the  folks  who  get  the  better  of  them.  The  con- 
tinued kindness  of  her  sister  was  this  comfort  to  Little  Dor- 
rit. It  was  nothing  to  her  that  the  kindness  took  the  form 
of  tolerant  patronage  ;  she  was  used  to  that.  It  was  noth- 
ing to  her  that  it  kept  her  in  a  tributary  position,  and  showed 
her  in  attendance  on  the  flaming  car  in  which  Miss  Fanny 
sat  on  an  elevated  seat,  exacting  homage  ;  she  sought  no 
better  place.  Always  admiring  Fanny's  beauty,  and  grace, 
and  readiness,  and  not  now  asking  herself  how  much  of  her 
disposition  to  be  strongly  attached  to  Fanny  was  due  to  her 
own  heart,  and  how  much  to  Fanny's,  she  gave  her  all  the 
sisterly  fondness  her  great  heart  contained. 

The  wholesale  amount  of  prunes  and  prism  which  Mrs. 
General  infused  into  the  family  life,  combined  with  the  per- 
petual plunges  made  by  Fanny  into  society,  left  but  a  very 
small  residue  of  any  natural  deposit  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mixture.  This  rendered  confidences  with  Fanny  doubly 
precious  to  Little  Dorrit,  and  heightened  the  relief  they 
afforded  her. 

"  Amy,"  said    Fanny  to  her,  one  night   when    they  were 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  505 

alone  after  a  day  so  tiring  that  Little  Dorrit  was  quite  worn 
out,  though  Fanny  would  have  taken  another  dip  into  society 
with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life.  ^*  I  am  going  to  put  some- 
thing into  your  little  head.  You  won't  guess  what  it  is,  I  sus- 
pect." 

"  I  don't  think  that's  likely,  dear,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Come,  I'll  give  you  a  clew,  child,"  said  Fanny.  **  Mrs. 
General." 

Prunes  and  prism,  in  a  thousand  combinations,  having 
been  wearily  in  the  ascent  all  day — every  thing  having 
been  surfaced  and  varnished,  and  show  without  substance — 
Little  Dorrit  looked  as  if  she  had  hoped  that  Mrs.  General 
was  safely  tucked  up  in  bed  for  some  hours. 

"  Now^  can  you  guess,  Amy  ?  "  said  Fanny. 

**  No,  dear.  Unless  I  have  done  any  thing,"  said  Little 
Dorrit,  rather  alarmed,  and  meaning  any  thing  calculated  to 
crack  varnish  and  ruffle  surface. 

Fanny  was  so  very  much  amused  by  the  misgiving,  that 
she  took  lip  her  favorite  fan  (being  then  seated  at  her  dressing- 
table  with  her  armory  of  cruel  instruments  about  her,  most 
of  them  reeking  from  the  heart  of  Sparkler),  and  tapped 
her  sister  frequently  on  the  nose  with  it,  laughing  all  the 
time. 

'*  Oh,  our  Amy,  our  Amy  !"  said  P'anny.  *'  What  a  timid 
little  goose  our  Amy  is  !  But  this  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  On 
the  contrary,  I  am  very  cross,  my  dear." 

"  As  it  is  not  with  me,  Fanny,  I  don't  mind,"  returned  her 
sister,  smiling.  * 

^*  Ah  !  But  I  do  mind,"  said  Fanny,  **  and  so  will  you. 
Pet,  when  I  enlighten  you.  Amy,  has  it  never  struck  you 
that  somebody  is  monstrously  polite  to  Mrs.  General  !  " 

"  Every  body  is  polite  to  Mrs.  General,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 
"  Because—" 

**  Because  she  freezes  them  into  it  ?  "  interrupted  Fanny. 
"  I  don't  mean  that;  quite  different  from  that.  Come!  Has 
it  never  struck  you.  Amy,  that  pa  is  monstrously  polite  to 
Mrs.  General  ?" 

Amy,  murmuring  "  No,"  looked  quite  confounded. 

**No;  I  dare  say  not.  But  he  is,"  said  Fanny.  "  He  is, 
Amy.  And  remember  my  words.  Mrs.  General  has  designs 
on  pa  !" 

"  Dear  Fanny,  do  you  think  it  possible  that  Mrs.  General 
has  designs  on  any  one  ?  " 

**  Do  I  think  it  possible  ?  "  retorted  Fanny.     "  My  love,  I 


5o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

know  it.  I  tell  you  she  has  designs  on  pa.  And  more  than 
that,  I  tell  you,  pa  considers  her  such  a  wonder,  such  a  par- 
agon of  accomplishment,  and  such  an  acquisition  to  our 
family  that  he  is  ready  to  get  himself  into  a  state  of  perfect 
infatuation  with  her  at  any  moment.  And  that  opens  a 
pretty  picture  of  things,  I  hope  !  Think  of  me  with  Mrs. 
General  for  a  mamma  !  " 

Little  Dorrit  did  not  reply,  "  Think  of  me  with  Mrs. 
General  for  a  mamma  !  **  but  she  looked  anxious,  and  seri- 
ously inquired  what  had  led  Fanny  to  these  conclusions. 

"  Lord,  my  darling,"  said  Fanny,,  tartly.  ''  You  might  as 
well  ask  me  how  I  know  when  a  man  is  struck  with  myself  ! 
But,  of  course  I  do  know.  It  happens  pretty  often;  but  I 
always  know  it.  I  know  this  in  much  the  same  way,  I  sup- 
pose.    At  all  events,  I  know  it." 

**  You  never  heard  papa  say  any  thing  ?  " 

"Say  any  thing  ?*'  repeated  Fanny.  "My  dearest,  dar- 
ling child,  what  necessity  has  he  had,  yet  awhile,  to  say  any 
thing  ? " 

"  And  you  have  never  heard  Mrs.  General  say  any 
thing  ?  " 

"  My  goodness  me.  Amy,**  returned  Fanny,  "is  she  the 
sort  of  woman  to  say  any  thing  ?  Isn't  it  perfectly  plain  and 
clear  that  she  has  nothing  to  do  at  present,  but  to  hold  her- 
self upright,  keep  her  aggravating  gloves  on,  and  go  sweep- 
ing about  ?  Say  any  thing  !  If  she  had  the  ace  of  trumps  in 
her  hand,  at  whist,  she  wouldn't  say  any  thing,  child.  It 
would  come  out  when  she  played  it."  * 

"  At  least  you  may  be  mistaken,  Fanny.  Now,  may  you 
not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  may  be,*'  said  Fanny,  "  but  I  am  not.  How- 
ever, I  am  glad  you  can  contemplate  such  an  escape,  my 
dear,  and  I  am  glad  you  can  take  this  for  the  present  with 
sufficient  coolness  to  think  of  such  a  chance.  It  makes  me 
hope  that  you  may  be  able  to  bear  the  connection.  I  should 
not  be  able  to  bear  it,  and  should  not  try.  I'd  marry  young 
Sparkler  first." 

"  Oh,  you  would  never  marry  him,  Fanny,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  Upon  my  word,  my  dear,**  rejoined  that  young  lady 
with  exceeding  indifference,  "  I  wouldn't  positively  answer 
even  for  that.  There's  no  knowing  what  might  happen. 
Especially  as  I  should  have  many  opportunities,  afterward,  of 
treating  that  woman,  his  mother,  in  her  own  stylCc     Which 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  507 

I  most  decidedly  should  not  be  slow  to  avail  myself  of, 
Amy." 

No  more  passed  between  the  sisters  then;  but  what  had 
passed  gave  the  two  subjects  of  Mrs.  General  and  Mr.  Spark- 
ler great  prominence  in  Little  Dorrit's  mind,  and  thenceforth 
she  thought  very  much  of  both. 

Mrs.  General  having  long  ago  formed  her  own  surface  to 
such  perfection  that  it  hid  whatever  was  below  it  (if  any 
thing),  no  observation  was  to  be  made  in  that  quarter.  Mr. 
Dorrit  was  undeniably  very  polite  to  her  and  had  a  high 
opinion  of  her;  but  Fanny,  impetuous  at  most  times,  might 
easily  be  wrong  for  all  that.  Whereas,  the  Sparkler  question 
was  on  the  different  footing  that  any  one  could  see  what 
was  going  on  there,  and  Little  Dorrit  saw  it  and  pondered 
on  it  with  many  doubts  and  wonderings. 

The  devotion  of  Mr.  Sparkler  was  only  to  be  equaled  by 
the  caprice  and  cruelty  of  his  enslaver.  Sometimes  she  would 
prefer  him  to  such  distinction  of  notice  that  he  would  chuckle 
aloud  with  joy;  next  day,  or  next  hour,  she  would  overlook 
him  so  completely,  and  drop  him  into  such  an  abyss  of  ob- 
scurity that  he  would  groan  under  a  weak  pretense  of  coughing. 
The  constancy  of  his  attendance  never  touched  Fanny  : 
though  he  was  so  inseparable  from  Edward,  that  when  that 
gentleman  wished  for  a  change  of  society  he  was  under  the 
irksome  necessity  of  gliding  out  like  a  conspirator,  in  dis- 
guised boats  and  by  secret  doors  and  back  ways;  though  he 
was  so  solicitous  to  know  how  Mr.  Dorrit  was,  that  he  called 
every  other  day  to  inquire,  as  if  Mr.  Dorrit  were  the  prey  of 
an  intermittent  fever;  though  he  was  so  constantly  being 
paddled  up  and  down  before  the  principal  windows,  that  he 
might  have  been  supposed  to  have  made  a  wager  for  a  large 
stake  to  be  paddled  a  thousand  miles  in  a  thousand  hours; 
though  whenever  the  gondola  of  his  mistress  left  the  gate, 
the  gondola  of  Mr.  Sparkler  shot  out  from  some  watery  am- 
bush and  gave  chase,  as  if  she  were  a  fair  smuggler  and  he  a 
custom-house  officer.  It  was  probably  owing  to  this  fortifi- 
cation of  the  natural  strength  of  his  constitution  wilh  so 
much  exposure  to  the  air,  and  the  salt  sea,  that  Mr.  Sparkler 
did  not  pine  outwardly;  but,  whatever  the  cause,  he  was  so 
far  from  having  any  prospect  of  moving  his  mistress  by  a 
languishing  state  of  health,  that  he  grew  bluffer  every  day, 
and  that  peculiarity  in  his  appearance  of  seeming  rather  a 
swelled  boy  than  a  young  man,  became  developed  to  an  ex- 
traordinary degree  of  ruddy  puffiness. 


So8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Blandois  calling  to  pay  his  respects,  Mr.  Dorrit  received 
him  with  affability,  as  the  friend  of  Mr.  Gowan,  and  men- 
tioned to  him  his  idea  of  commissioning  Mr.  Gowan  to  trans- 
mit him  to  posterity.  Blandois  highly  extolling  it,  it  oc- 
curred to  Mr.  Dorrit  that  it  might  be  agreeable  to  Blandois 
to  communicate  to  his  friend  the  great  opportunity  reserved 
for  him.  Blandois  accepted  the  commission  with  his  own 
free  elegance  of  manner,  and  swore  he  would  discharge  it 
before  he  was  an  hour  older.  On  his  imparting  the  news  to 
Gowan,  that  master  gave  Mr.  Dorrit  to  the  devil  with  great 
liberality  some  round  dozen  of  times  (for  he  resented  pat- 
ronage almost  as  much  as  he  resented  the  want  of  it),  and 
was  inclined  to  quarrel  with  his  friend  for  bringing  him  the 
message. 

'*  It  may  be  a  defect  in  my  mental  vision,  Blandois,"  said 
he,  "  but  may  I  die  if  I  see  what  you  have  to  do  with  this.*' 

**  Death  of  my  life,"  replied  Blandois,  "  nor  I  neither,  ex- 
cept that  I  thought  I  was  serving  my  friend." 

"  By  putting  an  upstart's  hire  in  his  pocket  ?  "  said  Gowan, 
frowning.  *'  Do  you  mean  that  .''  Tell  your  other  friend  to 
get  his  head  painted  for  the  sign  of  some  public-house,  and 
to  get  it  done  by  a  sign-painter.  Who  am  I,  and  who  is 
he?" 

"  Professore,"  returned  the  ambassador,  "  and  who  is 
Blandois  ?  " 

Without  appearing  at  all  interested  in  the  latter  question, 
Gowan  angrily  whistled  Mr.  Dorrit  away.  But  next  day  he 
resumed  the  subject  by  saying  in  his  off-hand  manner,  and 
with  a  slighting  laugh,  Well,  Blandois,  when  shall  we  go  to 
this  Maecenas  of  yours  ?  We  journeymen  must  take  jobs 
when  we  can  get  them.  When  shall  we  go  and  look  after 
this  job  ?  " 

**  When  you  will,"  said  the  injured  Blandois,  "  as  you 
please.     What  have  I  to  do  with  it  ?     What  is  it  to  me  ?  " 

**  I  can  tell  you  what  it  is  to  me,"  said  Gowan.  "Bread 
and  cheese.     One  must  eat !     So  come  along,  my  Blandois." 

Mr.  Dorrit  received  them  in  the  presence  of  his  daughters 
and  of  Mr,  Sparkler,  who  happened,  by  some  surprising  acci- 
dent, to  be  calling  there.  "  How  are  you,  Sparkler  ?  "  said 
Gowan,  carelessly.  "  When  you  have  to  live  by  your  mother- 
wit,  old  boy,  I  hope  you  may  get  on  better  than  I  do." 

Mr.  Dorrit  then  mentioned  his  proposal.  "  Sir,"  said 
Gowan,  laughing,  after  receiving  it  gracefully  enough,  *'  I  am 
new  to  the  trade,  and  not  expert  at  its  mysteries.     I  believe 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  509 

I  ought  to  look  at  you  in  various  lights,  tell  you  you  are  a 
capital  subject,  and  consider  when  I  shall  be  sufficiently 
disengaged  to  devote  myself  with  the  necessary  enthusiasm 
to  the  fine  picture  I  mean  to  make  of  you.  I  assure  you," 
and  he  laughed  again,  "  I  feel  quite  a  traitor  in  the  camp  of 
those  dear,  gifted,  good,  noble  fellows,  my  brother  artists,  by 
not  doing  the  hocus-pocus  better.  But  I  have  not  been 
brought  up  to  it,  and  it's  too  late  to  learn  it.  Now,  the  fact 
is,  I  am  a  very  bad  painter,  but  not  much  worse  than  the 
generality.  If  you  are  going  to  throw  away  a  hundred 
guineas  or  so,  I  am  as  poor  as  a  poor  relation  of  great  peo- 
ple usually  is,  and  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,  if 
you'll  throw  them  away  upon  me.  I'll  do  the  best  I  can  for  the 
money;  and  if  the  best  should  be  bad,  why  even  then,  you 
may  probably  have  a  bad  picture  with  a  small  name  to  it,  in- 
stead of  a  bad  picture  with  a  large  name  to  it." 

This  tone,  though  not  what  he  had  expected,  on  the  whole 
suited  Mr.  Dorrit  remarkably  well.  It  showed  that  the  gen- 
tleman, highly  connected,  and  not  a  mere  workman,  would 
be  under  an  obligation  to  him.  He  expressed  his  satisfac- 
tion in  placing  himself  in  Mr.  Gowan's  hands,  and  trusted 
that  he  would  have  the  pleasure,  in  their  characters  as  pri- 
vate gentlemen,  of  improving  his  acquaintance. 

*'  You  are  very  good,"  said  Gowan.  '*  I  have  not  forsworn 
society  since  I  joined  the  brotherhood  of  the  brush  (the  most 
delightful  fellows  on  the  face  of  the  earth)  and  am  glad 
enough  to  smell  the  old  fine  gunpowder  now  and  then,  though 
it  did  blow  me  into  mid-air  and  my  present  calling.  You'll 
not  think,  Mr.  Dorrit,"  and  here  he  laughed  again,  in  the 
easiest  way,  "  that  I  am  lapsing  into  the  freemasonry  of  the 
craft — for  it's  not  so  ;  upon  my  life  I  can't  help  betraying  it 
wherever  I  go,  though,  by  Jupiter,  I  love  and  honor  the  craft 
with  all  my  might — if  I  propose  a  stipulation  as  to  time  and 
place  ?" 

Ha  !  Mr.  Dorrit  could  erect  no — hum — suspicion  of  that 
kind,  on  Mr.  Gowan's  frankness. 

"  Again  you  are  very  good,"  said  Gowan.  **  Mr.  Dorrit, 
I  hear  you  are  going  to  Rome.  I  am  going  to  Rome,  having 
friends  there.  Let  me  begin  to  do  you  the  injustice  I  have 
conspired  to  do  you,  there — not  here.  We  shall  all  be  hur- 
ried during  the  rest  of  our  stay  here  ;  and  though  there's 
not  a  poorer  man  with  whole  elbows,  in  Venice,  than  myself, 
I  have  not  quite  got  all  the  amateur  out  of  me  yet — com- 
promising the  trade  again,  you  see  ! — and  can't  fall  on  to 
order,  in  a  hurry,  for  the  mere  sake  of  the  sixpences." 


516  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

These  remarks  were  not  less  favorably  received  by  Mr. 
Dorrit  than  their  predecessors.  They  were  the  prelude  to 
the  first  reception  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gowan  at  dinner,  and 
they  skillfully  placed  Gowan  on  his  usual  ground  in  the  new 
family. 

His  wife,  too,  they  placed  on  her  usual  ground.  Miss 
Fanny  understood,  with  particular  distinctness,  that  Mrs. 
Gowan's  good  looks  had  cost  her  husband  very  dear  ;  that 
there  had  been  a  great  disturbance  about  her  in  the  Barnacle 
family  ;  and  that  the  Dowager  Mrs.  Gowan,  nearly  heart- 
broken, had  resolutely  set  her  face  against  the  marriage  until 
overpowered  by  her  maternal  feelings.  Mrs.  General  like- 
wise clearly  understood  that  the  attachment  had  occasioned 
much  family  grief  and  dissension.  Of  honest  Mr.  Meagles 
no  mention  was  made  ;  except  that  it  was  natural  enough 
that  a  person  of  that  sort  should  wish  to  raise  his  daughter 
out  of  his  own  obscurity,  and  that  no  one  could  blame  him  for 
trying  his  best  to  do  so. 

Little  Dorrit's  interest  in  the  fair  subject  of  this  easily 
accepted  belief  was  too  earnest  and  watchful  to  fail  in  accu- 
rate observation.  She  could  see  that  it  had  its  part  in  throw- 
ing upon  Mrs.  Gowan  the  touch  of  shadow  under  which  she 
lived,  and  she  even  had  an  instinctive  knowledge  that  there 
was  not  the  least  truth  in  it.  But  it  had  an  influence  in 
placing  obstacles  in  the  way  of  her  association  with  Mrs. 
Gowan,  by  making  the  prunes  and  prism  school  excessively 
polite  to  her,  but  not  very  intimate  with  her  ;  and  Little 
Dorrit,  as  an  enforced  sizar  of  that  college,  was  obliged  to 
submit  herself  humbly  to  its  ordinances. 

Nevertheless,  there  was  a  sympathetic  understanding 
already  established  between  the  two,  which  would  have  car- 
ried them  over  greater  difficulties,  and  made  a  friendship  out 
of  a  more  restricted  intercourse.  As  though  accidents  were 
determined  to  be  favorable  to  it,  they  had  a  new  assurance  of 
congeniality  in  the  aversion  which  each  perceived  that  the 
other  felt  toward  Blandois  of  Paris  ;  an  aversion  amounting 
to  the  repugnance  and  horror  of  a  natural  antipathy  toward 
an  odious  creature  of  the  reptile  kind. 

And  there  was  a  passive  congeniality  between  them,  besides 
this  active  one.  To  both  of  them,  Blandois  behaved  in 
exactly  the  same  manner  ;  and  to  both  of  them  his  manner 
had  uniformly  something  in  it,  which  they  both  knew  to  be 
different  from  his  bearing  toward  others.  The  difference 
was  too  minute  in  its  expression  to  be  perceived  by  others, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  511 

but  they  knew  it  to  be  there.  A  mere  trick  of  his  evil  eyes, 
a  mere  turn  of  his  smooth  white  hand,  a  mere  hair-breadth 
of  addition  to  the  fall  of  his  nose  and  the  rise  of  the  mustache 
in  the  most  frequent  movement  of  his  face,  conveyed  to  both 
of  them  equally  a  swagger  personal  to  themselves.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  said,  ''  I  have  a  secret  power  in  this  quarter.  I 
know  what  I  know." 

This  had  never  been  felt  by  them  both  in  so  great  a 
degree,  and  never  by  each  so  perfectly  to  the  knowledge  of 
the  other,  as  on  a  day  when  he  came  to  Mr.  Dorrit's  to  take 
his  leave  before  quitting  Venice.  Mrs.  Gowan  was  herself 
there  for  the  same  purpose,  and  he  came  upon  the  two  to 
gether  ;  the  rest  of  the  family  being  out.  The  two  had  not 
been  together  five  minutes,  and  the  peculiar  manner  seemed 
to  convey  to  them,  "  You  were  going  to  talk  about  me.  Ha  ! 
Behold  me  here  to  prevent  it !  " 

"  Gowan  is  coming  here  ?  "  said  Blandois,  with  his  smile. 

Mrs.  Gowan  replied  he  was  not  coming. 

"  Not  coming  !  "  said  Blandois.  **  Permit  your  devoted 
servant,  when  you  leave  here,  to  escort  you  home." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  am  not  going  home." 

"  Not  going  home  !  "  said  Blandois.    "  Then  I  am  forlorn." 

That  he  might  be  ;  but  he  was  not  so  forlorn  as  to  roam 
away  and  leave  them  together.  He  sat  entertaining  them 
with  his  finest  compliments,  and  his  choicest  conversation  ; 
but  he  conveyed  to  them,  all  the  time,  "  No,  no,  no,  dear 
ladies.     Behold  me  here  expressly  to  prevent  it  !  " 

He  conveyed  it  to  them  with  so  much  meaning,  and  he 
had  such  a  diabolical  persistency  in  him,  that  at  length  Mrs. 
Gowan  rose  to  depart.  On  his  offering  his  hand  to  Mrs. 
Gowan  to  lead  her  down  the  staircase,  she  retained  Little 
Dorrit's  hand  in  hers,  with  a  cautious  pressure,  and  said, 
**  No,  thank  you.  But  if  you  will  please  to  see  if  my  boat- 
man is  there,  1  shall  be  obliged  to  you." 

It  left  him  no  choice  but  to  go  down  before  them.  As  he 
did  so,  hat  in  hand,  Mrs.  Gowan  whispered  : 

*|  He  killed  the  dog." 
..    **  Does  Mr.  Gowan  know  it?"  Little  Dorrit  whispered. 

**  No  one  knows  it.  Don't  look  toward  me  ;  look  toward 
him.  He  will  turn  his  face  in  a  moment.  No  one  knows  it, 
but  I  am  sure  he  did.     You  are  ?  " 

"  I — I  think  so,"  Little  Dorrit  answered. 

"  Henry  likes  him,  and  will  not  think  ill  of  him  ;  he  is  so 
generous  and  open  himself.     But  you  and  I  feel  sure  that  we 


512  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

think  of  him  as  he  deserves.  He  argued  with  Henry  that 
the  dog  had  been  already  poisoned  when  he  changed  so,  and 
sprung  at  him.  Henry  believes  it,  but  we  do  not.  I  see  he 
is  listening,  but  can't  hear.    Good-by,  my  love  !    Good-by  !  " 

The  last  words  were  spoken  aloud,  as  the  vigilant  Blan- 
dois  stopped,  turned  his  head,  and  looked  at  them  from  the 
bottom  of  the  staircase.  Assuredly  he  did  look  then,  though 
he  looked  his  politest,  as  if  any  real  philanthropist  could 
have  desired  no  better  employment  than  to  lash  a  great  stone 
to  his  neck,  and  drop  him  into  the  water  flowing  beyond  the 
dark  arched  gate-way  in  which  he  stood.  No  such  benefactor 
to  mankind  being  on  the  spot,  he  handed  Mrs.  Gowan  to  her 
boat,  and  stood  there  until  it  had  shot  out  of  the  narrow 
view;  when  he  handed  himself  into  his  own  boat  and  fol- 
lowed. 

Little  Dorrit  had  sometime  thought,  and  now  thought 
again  as  she  retraced  her  steps  up  the  staircase,  that  he  had 
made  his  way  too  easily  into  her  father's  house.  But  so  many 
and  such  varieties  of  people  did  the  same,  through  Mr.  Dorrit's 
participation  in  his  elder  daughter's  society  mania,  that  it  was 
hardly  an  exceptional  case.  A  perfect  fury  for  making  ac- 
quaintances on  whom  to  impress  their  riches  and  importance 
had  seized  the  house  of  Dorrit. 

It  appeared  on  the  whole  to  Little  Dorrit  herself,  that  this 
same  society  in  which  they  lived,  greatly  resembled  a  supe- 
rior sort  of  Marshalsea.  Numbers  of  people  seemed  to  come 
aboard,  pretty  much  as  people  had  come  into  the  prison; 
through  debt,  through  idleness,  relationship,  curiosity  and 
general  unfitness  for  getting  on  at  home.  They  were  brought 
into  these  foreign  towns  in  the  custody  of  couriers  and  local 
followers,  just  as  the  debtors  had  been  brought  into  the  prison. 
They  prowled  about  the  churches  and  picture-galleries,  much 
in  the  old,  dreary,  prison-yard  manner.  They  were  usually 
going  away  again  to-morrow  or  next  week,  and  rarely  knew 
their  own  minds,  and  seldom  did  what  they  said  they  would 
do,  or  went  where  they  said  they  would  go;  in  all  this  again, 
very  like  the  prison  debtors.  They  paid  high  for  poor  accom- 
modation, and  disparaged  a  place  while  they  pretended  to  like 
it;  which  was  exactly  the  Marshalsea  custom.  They  were 
envied  when  they  went  away,  by  people  left  behind  feigning 
not  to  want  to  go:  and  again  that  was  the  Marshalsea  habit 
invariably.  A  certain  set  of  words  and  phrases,  as  much  be- 
longing to  tourists  as  the  college  and  the  Snuggery  belonged 
to  the  jail,  was  always  in  their  mouths.     They  had  precisely 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  513 

the  same  incapacity  for  settling  down  to  any  thing,  as  the 
prisoners  used  to  have;  they  rather  deteriorated  one  another, 
as  the  prisoners  used  to  do;  and  they  wore  untidy  dresses, 
and  fell  into  a  slouching  way  of  life:  still,  always  like  the 
people  in  the  Marshalsea. 

The  period  of  the  family's  stay  at  Venice  came,  in  its 
course,  to  an  end,  and  they  moved  with  their  retinue  to 
Rome.  Through  a  repetition  of  the  former  Italian  scenes, 
growing  more  dirty  and  more  haggard  as  they  went  on,  and 
bringing  them  at  length  to  where  the  very  air  was  diseased, 
they  passed  to  their  destination.  A  fine  residence  had  been 
taken  for  them  on  the  Corso,  and  there  they  took  up  their 
abode,  in  a  city  where  every  thing  seemed  to  be  trying  to 
stand  still  forever  on  the  ruins  of  something  else — except 
the  water,  which  following  eternal  laws,  tumbled  and  rolled 
from  its  glorious  multitude  of  fountains. 

Here,  it  seemed  to  Little  Dorrit  that  a  change  came  over 
the  Marshalsea  spirit  of  their  society,  and  that  prunes  and 
prism  got  the  upper  hand.  Every  body  was  walking  about 
St.  Peter's  and  the  Vatican  on  somebody  else's  cork  legs,  and 
straining  every  visible  object  through  somebody  else's  sieve. 
Nobody  said  what  any  thing  was,  but  every  body  said  what 
the  Mrs.  Generals,  Mr.  Eustace,  or  somebody  else  said  it  was. 
The  whole  body  of  travelers  seemed  to  be  a  collection  of 
voluntary  human  sacrifices,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  deliv- 
ered over  to  Mr.  Eustace  and  his  attendants,  to  have  the 
entrails  of  their  intellects  arranged  according  to  the  taste  of 
that  sacred  priesthood.  Through  the  rugged  remains  of  tem- 
ples and  tombs  and  palaces  and  senate  halls  and  theaters  and 
amphitheaters  of  ancient  days,  hosts  of  tongue-tied  and  blind- 
folded moderns  were  carefully  feeling  their  way,  incessantly 
repeating  prunes  and  prism,  in  the  endeavor  to  set  their  lips 
according  to  the  received  forms.  Mrs.  General  was  in  her 
pure  element.  Nobody  had  an  opinion.  There  was  a  for- 
mation of  surface  going  on  around  her  on  an  amazing  scale, 
and  it  had  not  a  flaw  of  courage  or  honest  free  speech 
in  it. 

Another  modification  of  prunes  and  prism  insinuated  itself 
on  Little  Dorrit's  notice,  very  shortly  after  their  arrival. 
They  received  an  early  visit  from  Mrs.  Merdle,  who  led  that 
extensive  department  of  life  in  the  Eternal  City  that  winter; 
and  the  skillful  manner  in  which  she  and  Fanny  fenced  with 
one  another  on  the  occasion,  almost  made  her  quiet  sister 
wink,  like  the  glittering  of  small  swords. 


514  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*^  So  delighted,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  to  resume  an  acquaint- 
ance so  inauspiciously  begun  at  Martigny." 

*'  At  Martigny,  of  course,"  said  Fanny.     *^  Charmed,  I  am 


sure 


I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  *^  from  my  son  Edmund 
Sparkler,  that  he  has  already  improved  that  chance  occasion. 
He  has  returned  quite  transported  with  Venice." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  returned  the  careless  Fanny.  *'  Was  he  there 
long  ? " 

"  I  might  refer  that  question  to  Mr.  Dorrit,"  said  Mrs. 
Merdle,  turning  the  bosom  toward  that  gentleman  ;  '*  Ed- 
mund having  been  so  much  indebted  to  him  for  rendering 
his  stay  agreeable." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  speak  of  it,"  returned  Fanny.  *^  I  believe 
papa  had  the  pleasure  of  inviting  Mr.  Sparkler  twice  or  thrice, 
but  it  was  nothing.  We  had  so  many  people  about  us,  and 
kept  such  open  house,  that  if  he  had  that  pleasure,  it  was  less 
than  nothing." 

**  Except,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  except — ha — as  it 
afforded  me  unusual  gratification  to — hum — show  by  any 
means,  however  slight  and  worthless,  the — ha,  hum — high 
estimation  in  which,  in — ha — common  with  the  rest  of  the 
world,  I  hold  so  distinguished  and  princely  a  character  as 
Mr.  Merdle's." 

The  bosom  received  this  tribute  in  its  most  engaging 
manner.  "  Mr.  Merdle,"  observed  Fanny,  as  a  means  of  dis- 
missing Mr.  Sparkler  into  the  background,  "  is  quite  a  theme 
of  papa's,  you  must  know,  Mrs.  Merdle." 

"  I  have  been — ha — disappointed,  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Dorrit,  *^  to  understand  from  Mr.  Sparkler  that  there  is  no 
great — hum — probability  of   Mr.   Merdle's  coming  abroad." 

'^  Why,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  he  is  so  much  en- 
gaged, and  in  such  request,  that  I  fear  not.  He  has  not 
been  able  to  get  abroad  for  years.  You,  Miss  Dorrit,  I  be- 
lieve have  been  almost  continually  abroad  for  a  long  time." 

*^  Oh  dear  yes,"  drawled  Fanny,  with  the  greatest  hardi- 
hood.    "  An  immense  number  of  years." 

"  So  I  should  have  inferred,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Fanny. 

"  I  trust,  however,"  resumed  Mr.  Dorrit,  '*  that  if  I  have 
not  the — hum — great  advantage  of  becoming  known  to  Mr. 
Merdle  on  this  side  of  the  Alps  or  Mediterranean,  I  shall 
have  that  honor  on  returning  to  England.  It  is  an  honor  1 
particularly  desire  and  shall  particularly  esteem." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  515 

"  Mr.  Merdle,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  who  had  been  looking 
admiringly  at  Fanny  through  her  eye-glass,  "  will  esteem  it, 
I  am  sure,  no  less." 

Little  Dorrit,  still  habitually  thoughtful  and  solitary, 
though  no  longer  alone,  at  first  supposed  this  to  be  mere 
prunes  and  prism.  But  as  her  father  when  they  had  been  to 
a  brilliant  reception  at  Mrs.  Merdle's,  harped,  at  their  own 
family  breakfast-table,  on  his  wish  to  know  Mr.  Merdle,  with 
the  contingent  view  of  benefiting  by  the  advice  of  that  won- 
derful man  in  the  disposal  of  his  fortune,  she  began  to  think 
it  had  a  real  meaning,  and  to  entertain  a  curiosity  on  her 
own  part,  to  see  the  shining  light  of  the  time. 


CHAPTER   VIIL 

THE   DOWAGER   MRS.  GOWAN    IS   REMINDED  THAT   IT    NEVER 

DOES. 

While  the  waters  of  Venice  and  the  ruins  of  Rome  were 
sunning  themselves  for  the  pleasure  of  the  Dorrit  family,  and 
were  daily  being  sketched  out  of  all  earthly  proportion,  linea- 
ment, and  likeness,  by  traveling  pencils  innumerable,  the 
firm  of  Doyce  and  Clennam  hammered  away  in  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard,  and  the  vigorous  clink  of  iron  upon  iron  was 
heard  there  through  the  working  hours. 

The  younger  partner  had,  by  this  time,  brought  the  busi- 
ness into  sound  trim  ;  and  the  elder,  left  free  to  follow  his 
own  ingenious  devices,  had  done  much  to  enhance  the  char- 
acter of  the  factory.  As  an  ingenious  man,  he  had  necessarily 
to  encounter  every  discouragement  that  the  ruling  powers  for 
a  length  of  time  had  been  able,  by  any  means,  to  put  in  the 
way  of  this  class  of  culprits  ;  but  that  was  only  reasonable 
self-defense  in  the  powers,  since  how  to  do  it  must  obviously 
be  regarded  as  the  natural  and  mortal  enemy  of  how  not  to  do 
it.  In  this  was  to  be  found  the  basis  of  the  wise  system,  by 
tooth  and  nail  upheld  by  the  circumlocution  office,  of  warn- 
ing every  ingenious  British  subject  to  be  ingenious  at  his 
peril  ;  of  harassing  him,  obstructing  him,  inviting  robbers  (by 
making  his  remedy  uncertain,  difficult,  and  expensive)  to 
plunder  him,  and,  at  the  best,  of  confiscating  his  property  after 
a  short  term  of  enjoyment,  as  though  invention  were  on  a 
par  with  felony.  The  system  had  uniformly  found  great 
favor  with  the  Barnacles,  and  that  was  only  reasonable,  too  . 


5i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

for  one  who  worthily  invents  must  be  in  earnest,  and  the 
Barnacles  abhorred  and  dreaded  nothing  half  so  much.  That 
again  was  very  reasonable  ;  since  in  a  country  suffering  under 
the  affliction  of  a  great  amount  of  earnestness,  there  might,  in 
an  exceeding  short  space  of  time,  be  not  a  single  Barnacle 
left  sticking  to  a  post. 

Daniel  Doyce  faced  his  condition  with  its  pains  and  penal- 
ties attached  to  it,  and  soberly  worked  on  for  the  work's 
sake.  Clennam,  cheering  him  with  a  hearty  co-operation, 
was  a  moral  support  to  him,  besides  doing  good  service  in  his 
business  relation.  The  concern  prospered,  and  the  partners 
were  fast  friends. 

But  Daniel  could  not  forget  the  old  design  of  so  many 
years.  It  was  not  in  reason  to  be  expected  that  he  should  ; 
if  he  could  have  lightly  forgotten  it,  he  could  never  have 
conceived  it,  or  had  the  patience  and  perseverance  to  work  it 
out.  So  Clennam  thought,  when  he  sometimes  observed 
him  of  an  evening  looking  over  the  models  and  drawings, 
and  consoling  himself  by  muttering  with  a  sigh  as  he  put 
them  away  again,  that  the  thing  was  as  true  as  it  ever  was. 

To  show  no  sympathy  with  so  much  endeavor,  and  so 
much  disappointment,  would  have  been  to  fail  in  what  Clen- 
nam regarded  as  among  the  implied  obligations  of  his  part- 
nership. A  revival  of  the  passing  interest  in  the  subject 
which  had  been  by  chance  awakened  at  the  door  of  the  cir- 
cumlocution office,  originated  in  this  feeling.  He  asked  his 
partner  to  explain  the  invention  to  him  ;  *'  having  a  lenient 
consideration,"  he  stipulated,  "  for  my  bei^g  no  workman, 
Doyce." 

^'  No  workman  ?  "  said  Doyce.  "You  would  have  been  a 
thorough  workman  if  you  had  given  yourself  to  it.  You  have 
as  good  a  head  for  understanding  such  things  as  I  have  met 
with." 

"  A  totally  uneducated  one,  I  am  sorry  to  add,"  said 
Clennam. 

^*  I  don't  know  that,"  returned  Doyce,  "and  I  wouldn't 
have  you  say  that.  No  man  of  sense,  who  has  been  gener- 
ally improved,  and  has  improved  himself,  can  be  called  quite 
uneducated  as  to  any  thing.  I  don't  particularly  favor  mys- 
teries. I  would  as  soon,  on  a  fair  and  clear  explanation,  be 
judged  by  one  class  of  man  as  another,  provided  he  had  the 
qualifications  I  have  named." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Clennam — "  this  sounds  as  if  we  were 
exchanging   compliments,  but  we  know  we  are  not  ^-I  shall 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  517 

have  the  advantage  of  as  plain  an  explanation  as  can  be^ 
given." 

"  Well,"  said  Daniel,  in  his  steady,  even  way,  "  I'll  try  to 
make  it  so." 

He  had  the  power,  often  to  be  found  in  union  with  such  a 
character,  of  explaining  what  he  himself  perceived,  and  meant, 
with  the  direct  force  and  distinctness  with  which  it  struck  his 
own  mind.  His  manner  of  demonstration  was  so  orderly  and 
neat  and  simple,  that  it  was  not  easy  to  mistake  him.  There 
was  something  almost  ludicrous  in  the  complete  irreconcila- 
bility of  a  vague  conventional  notion  that  he  must  be  a  vision- 
ary man,  with  the  precise,  sagacious  traveling  of  his  eye  and 
thumb  over  the  plans,  their  patient  stoppages  at  particular 
points,  their  careful  return  to  other  points  whence  little 
channels  of  explanation  had  to  be  traced  up,  and  his  steady 
manner  of  making  every  thing  good  and  every  thing  sound,  at 
each  important  stage,  before  taking  his  hearer  on  a  line's 
breadth  further.  His  dismissal  of  himself  from  his  descrip- 
tion, was  hardly  less  remarkable.  He  never  said,  I  discovered 
this  adaptation  or  invented  that  combination;  but  showed 
the  whole  thing  as  if  the  Divine  artificer  had  made  it  and 
he  had  happened  to  find  it.  So  modest  he  was  about  it,  such 
a  pleasant  touch  of  respect  was  mingled  with  his  quiet 
admiration  of  it,  and  so  calmly  convinced  he  was  that  it  was 
established  on  irrefragable  laws. 

Not  only  that  evening,  but  for  several  succeeding  evenings, 
Clennam  was  quite  charmed  by  his  investigation.  The  more 
he  pursued  it,  and  the  oftener  he  glanced  at  the  gray  head 
bending  over  it,  and  the  shrewd  eye  kindling  with  pleasure 
in  it  and  love  of  it — instrument  for  probing  his  heart  though 
it  had  been  made  for  twelve  long  years — the  less  he  could 
reconcile  it  to  his  younger  energy  to  let  it  go  without  one 
effort  more.     At  length  he  said: 

"  Doyce,  it  came  to  this  at  last — that  the  business  was  to 
be  sunk  with  heaven  knows  how  many  more  wrecks,  or  begun 
all  over  again  ?  " 

**  Yes,"  returned  Doyce, "  that's  what  the  noblemen  and 
gentlemen  made  of  it  after  a  dozen  years." 

*'  And  pretty  fellows,  too  !  "  said  Clennam,  bitterly. 

"  The  usual  thing  !  "  observed  Doyce.  ''  I  must  not  make 
a  martyr  of  myself,  when  I  am  one  of  so  large  a  company." 

**  Relinquish  it,  or  begin  it  all  over  again  ?  "  mused  Clen- 
nam. 

"  That  was  exactly  the  long  and  the  short  of  it,"  said  Doyce, 


5i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Then,  my  friend,"  cried  Clennam,  starting  up,  and  taking 
his  work-roughened  hand,  '*  it  shall  be  begun  all  over  again  !  " 

Doyce  looked  alarmed,  and  replied  in  a  hurry — for  him, 
**  No,  no.  Better  put  it  by.  Far  better  put  it  by.  It  will  be 
heard  of  one  day.  I  can  put  it  by.  You  forget,  my  good 
Clennam:  I  have  put  it  by.     It's  all  at  an  end." 

""  Yes,  Doyce,"  returned  Clennam,  ^*  at  an  end  as  far  as 
your  efforts  and  rebuffs  are  concerned,  I  admit,  but  not  as 
far  as  mine  are.  I  am  younger  than  you:  I  have  only  once 
set  foot  in  that  precious  office,  and  I  am  fresh  game  for  them. 
Come  !  I'll  try  them.  You  shall  do  exactly  as  you  have 
been  doing  since  we  have  been  together.  I  will  add  (as  I 
easily  can)  to  what  I  have  been  doing,  the  attempt  to  get 
public  justice  done  to  you;  and,  unless  I  have  some  success 
to  report,  you  shall  hear  no  more  of  it." 

Daniel  Doyce  was  still  reluctant  to  consent,  and  again  and 
again  urged  that  they  had  better  put  it  by.  But  it  was  nat- 
ural that  he  should  gradually  allow  himself  to  be  over-per- 
suaded by  Clennam,  and  should  yield.  Yield  he  did.  So 
Arthur  resumed  the  long  and  hopeless  labor  of  striving  to 
make  way  with  the  circumlocution  office. 

The  waiting  rooms  of  that  department  soon  began  to  be 
familiar  with  his  presence,  and  he  was  generally  ushered  into 
them  by  its  janitors  much  as  a  pickpocket  might  be  shown 
into  a  police-office  ;  the  principal  difference  being  that  the 
object  of  the  latter  class  of  public  business  is  to  keep  the 
pickpocket,  while  the  circumlocution  object  was  to  get  rid  of 
Clennam.  However,  he  was  resolved  to  stick  to  the  great 
department  ;  and  so  the  work  of  form-filling,  corresponding, 
minuting,  memorandum-making,  signing,  counter  signing, 
counter-counter  signing  backward  and  forward,  and  refer- 
ring sideways,  crosswise,  and  zigzag,  recommenced. 

Here  arises  a  feature  of  the  circumlocution  office,  not 
previously  mentioned  in  the  present  record.  When  that 
admirable  department  got  into  trouble,  and  was  by  some 
infuriated  member  of  parliament,  whom  the  smaller  Barna- 
cles almost  suspected  of  laboring  under  diabolic  possession, 
attacked  on  the  merits  of  no  individual  case,  but  as  an  insti- 
tution wholly  abominable  and  bedlamite  ;  then  the  noble  or 
right  honorable  Barnacle  who  represented  it  in  the  house, 
would  smite  that  member  and  cleave  him  asunder,  with  a 
statement  of  the  quantity  of  business  (for  the  prevention  of 
business)  done  by  the  circumlocution  office.  Then  would 
that  noble  or  right  honorable  Barnacle  hold  in  his  hand  a 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  519 

paper  containing  a  few  figures,  to  which,  with  the  permission 
of  the  house,  he  would  entreat  its  attention.  Then  would  the 
inferior  Barnacles  exclaim,  obeying  orders,"  hear,  hear,  hear!" 
and  "  read  !  "  Then  would  the  noble  or  right  honorable 
.  Barnacle  perceive,  sir,  from  this  little  document,  which  he 
thought  might  carry  conviction  even  to  the  perversest  mind 
(derisive  laughter  and  cheering  from  the  Barnacle  fry),  that 
within  the  short  compass  of  the  last  financial  half-year,  this 
much-maligned  department  (cheers)  had  written  and  re- 
ceived fifteen  thousand  letters  (loud  cheers),  had  made 
twenty-four  thousand  minutes  (louder  cheers),  and  thirty- 
two  thousand  five  hundred  and  seventeen  memoranda  (ve- 
hement cheering).  Nay,  an  ingenious  gentleman  connected 
with  the  department,  and  himself  a  public  servant,  had 
done  him  the  favor  to  make  a  curious  calculation  of  the 
amount  of  stationery  consumed  in  it  during  the  same  period. 
It  formed  a  part  of  this  same  short  document,  and  he  derived 
from  it  the  remarkable  fact  that  the  sheets  of  foolscap  paper 
it  had  devoted  to  the  public  service  would  pave  the  footways 
on  both  sides  of  Oxford  Street  from  end  to  end,  and  leave 
nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  spare  for  the  park  (immense 
cheering  and  laughter);  while  of  tape — red  tape — it  had 
used  enough  to  stretch,  in  graceful  festoons,  from  Hyde  Park 
corner  to  the  General  Post-office.  Then  amidst  a  burst  of 
official  exultation,  would  the  noble  or  right  honorable  Bar- 
nacle sit  down,  leaving  the  mutilated  fragments  of  the  mem- 
ber on  the  field.  No  one,  after  that  exemplary  demolition 
of  him,  would  have  the  hardihood  to  hint  that  the  more  the 
circumlocution  office  did,  the  less  was  done,  and  that  the 
greatest  blessing  it  could  confer  on  an  unhappy  public  would 
be  to  do  nothing.     • 

With  sufficient  occupation  on  his  hands,  now  that  he  had 
this  additional  task — such  a  task  had  many  and  many  a  serv- 
iceable man  died  of  before  his  day — Arthur  Clennam  led  a 
life  of  slight  variety.  Regular  visits  to  his  mother's  dull 
sick  room,  and  visits  scarcely  less  regular  to  Mr.  Meagles  at 
Twickenham,  were  its  only  changes  during  many  months. 

He  sadly  and  sorely  missed  Little  Dorrit.  He  had  been 
prepared  to  miss  her  very  much,  but  not  so  much.  He 
knew  to  the  full  extent  only  through  experience,  what  a  large 
place  in  his  life  was  left  blank  when  her  familiar  little  figure 
went  out  of  it.  He  felt,  too,  that  he  must  relinquish  the 
hope  of  its  return,  understanding  the  family  character  suf- 
ficiently well  to  be  assured  that  he  and  she  were  divided  by 


520  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

a  broad  ground  of  separation.  The  old  interest  he  had  had 
in  her,  and  her  old  trusting  reliance  on  him,  were  tinged 
with  melancholy  in  his  mind  :  so  soon  had  change  stolen 
over  them,  and  so  soon  had  they  glided  into  the  past  with 
other  secret  tendernesses. 

When  he  received  her  letter  he  was  greatly  moved,  but 
did  not  the  less  sensibly  feel  that  she  was  far  divided  from 
him  by  more  than  distance.  It  helped  him  to  a  clearer  and 
keener  perception  of  the  place  assigned  him  by  the  family. 
He  saw  that  he  was  cherished  in  her  grateful  remembrance 
secretly,  and  that  they  resented  him  with  the  jail  and  the 
rest  of  its  belongings. 

Through  all  these  meditations  which  every  day  of  his  life 
crowded  about  her,  he  thought  of  her  otherwise  in  the  old 
way.  She  was  his  innocent  friend,  his  delicate  child,  his 
dear  Little  Dorrit.  This  very  change  of  circumstances  fitted 
curiously  in  with  the  habit,  begun  on  the  night  when  the 
roses  floated  away,  of  considering  himself  as  a  much  older 
man  than  his  years  really  made  him.  He  regarded  her  from 
a  point  of  view  which  in  its  remoteness,  tender  as  it  was, 
he  little  thought  would  have  been  unspeakable  agony  to  her. 
He  speculated  about  her  future  destiny,  and  about  the  hus- 
band she  might  have,  with  an  affection  for  her  which  would 
have  drained  her  heart  of  its  dearest  drop  of  hope,  and 
broken  it. 

,  Every  thing  about  him  tended  to  confirm  him  in  the  cus- 
tom of  looking  on  himself  as  an  elderly  man,  from  whom 
such  aspirations  as  he  had  combated  in  the  case  of  Minnie 
Gowan  (though  that  was  not  so  long  ago  either,  reckoning 
by  months  and  seasons),  were  finally  departed.  His  relations 
with  her  father  and  mother  were  like  those  on  which  a  wid- 
ower son-in-law  might  have  stood.  If  the  twin  sister,  who 
was  dead,  had  lived  to  pass  away  in  the  bloom  of  woman- 
hood, and  he  had  been  her  husband,  the  nature  of  his  in- 
tercourse with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles  would  probably  have 
been  just  what  it  was.  This  imperceptibly  helped  to  render 
habitual  the  impression  within  him,  that  he  had  done  with, 
and  dismissed,  that  part  of  life. 

He  invariably  heard  of  Minnie  from  them,  as  telling  them 
in  her  letters  how  happy  she  was,  and  how  she  loved  her  hus- 
band ;  but  inseparable  from  that  subject,  he  invariably  saw 
the  old  cloud  on  Mr.  Meagles's  face.  Mr.  Meagles  had 
never  been  quite  so  radiant  since  the  marriage  as  before.  He 
had  never  quite  recovered  the  separation  from  Pet.     He  was 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  521 

the  same  good-humored,  open  creature  ;  but  as  if  his  face, 
from  being  much  turned  toward  the  pictures  of  his  two 
children  which  could  show  him  only  one  look,  unconsciously 
adopted  a  characteristic  from  them,  it  always  had  now, 
through  all  its  changes  of  expression,  a  look  of  loss  in  it. 

One  wintry  Saturday  when  Clennam  was  at  the  cottage, 
the  Dowager  Mrs.  Gowan  drove  up,  in  the  Hampton  Court 
equipage  which  pretended  to  be  the  exclusive  equipage  of  so 
many  individual  proprietors.  She  descended,  in  her  shady 
ambuscade  of  green  fan,  to  favor  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles 
with  a  call. 

**  And  how  do  you  both  do,  papa  and  mamma  Meagles  ?  *' 
said  she,  encouraging  her  humble  connections.  ^'  And  when 
did  you  last  hear  from  or  about  my*poor  fellow  ?  " 

My  poor  fellow  was  her  son  ;  and  this  mode  of  speaking 
of  him  politely  kept  alive  without  any  offense  in  the  world, 
the  pretense  that  he  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  Meagles's 
wiles. 

*^  And  the  dear  pretty  one  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  Have 
you  later  news  of  her  than  I  have  ?  " 

Which  also  delicately  implied  that  her  son  had  been  cap- 
tured by  mere  beauty,  and  under  its  fascination  had  fore- 
gone all  sorts  of  worldly  advantages. 

"I  am  sure,**  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  without  straining  her  at- 
tention on  the  answers  she  received,  "  it's  an  unspeakable 
comfort  to  know  that  they  continue  happy.  My  poor  fel- 
low is  of  such  a  restless  disposition,  and  has  been  so  used  to 
roving  about,  and  to  being  inconstant  and  popular  among 
all  manner  of  people,  that  it's  the  greatest  comfort  in  life.  I 
suppose  they're  as  poor  as  mice,  papa  Meagles  ? " 

Mr.  Meagles,  fidgety  under  the  question,  replied, "  I  hope 
not,  ma'am.     I  hope  they  will  manage  their  little  income." 

"  Oh  !  my  dearest  Meagles  !  '*  returned  the  lady,  tapping 
him  on  the  arm  with  the  green  fan  and  then  adroitly  inter- 
posing it  between  a  yawn  and  the  company,  *'  how  can  you 
as  a  man  of  the  world  and  one  of  the  most  business-like  of 
human  beings — for  you  know  you  are  business  like,  and  a 
great  deal  too  much  for  us  who  are  not " 

(Which  went  to  the  former  purpose,  by  making  Mr.  Mea- 
gles out  to  be  an  artful  schemer.) 

" — How  can  you  talk  about  their  managing  their  little 
means  ?  My  poor  dear  fellow  !  The  idea  of  his  managing 
hundreds  '  And  the  sweet  pretty  creature  too.  The  notion 
of  her  managing  !     Poor  Meagles  !     Don't !  " 


522  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Well,  ma*am,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  gravely,  "  I  am  sorry 
to  admit,  then,  that  Henry  certainly  does  anticipate  his 
means." 

"  My  dear  good  man — I  use  no  ceremony  with  you,  be- 
cause we  are  kind  of  relations  ; — positively,  mamma  Meagles," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Gowan  cheerfully,  as  if  the  absurd  coinci- 
dence then  flashed  upon  her  for  the  first  time,  **  a  kind  of 
relations  !  My  dear  good  man,  in  this  world  none  of  us  can 
have  every  thing  our  own  way." 

This  again  went  to  the  former  point,  and  showed  Mr. 
Meagles  with  all  good  breeding  that,  so  far,  he  had  been 
brilliantly  successful  in  his  deep  designs.  Mrs.  Gowan 
thought  the  hit  so  goo4  a  one,  that  she  dwelt  upon  it ;  re- 
peating *^  Not  every  thing.  No,  no  ;  in  this  world  we  must 
not  expect  every  things  papa  Meagles." 

"And  may  I  ask,  ma'am,"  retorted  Mr.  Meagles,  a  little 
heightened  in  color,  *^  who  does  expect  every  thing  ? " 

*'  Oh,  nobody,  nobody  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  I  was 
going  to  say — but  you  put  me  out.  You  interrupting  papa, 
what  was  I  going  to  say  ?  " 

Dropping  her  large  green  fan,  she  looked  musingly  at  Mr. 
Meagles  while  she  thought  about  it  ;  a  performance  not 
tending  to  the  cooling  of  that  gentleman's  rather  heated 
spirits. 

**  Ah  !  Yes,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  You 
must  remember  that  my  poor  fellow  has  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  expectations.  They  may  have  been  realized,  or 
they  may  not  have  been  realized " 

"  Let  us  say,  then,  may  not  have  been  realized,"  observed 
Mr.  Meagles. 

The  dowager  for  a  moment  gave  him  an  angry  look  ;  but 
tossed  it  off  with  her  head  and  fan,  and  pursued  the  tenor 
of  her  wa}  in  her  former  manner. 

"  It  makes  no  difference.  My  poor  fellow  has  been  accus- 
tomed to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  of  course  you  knew  it,  and 
were  prepared  for  the  consequences.  I  myself  always  clearly 
foresaw  the  consequences,  and  am  not  surprised.  And  you 
must  not  be  surprised.  In  fact,  can't  be  surprised.  Must 
have  been  prepared  for  it." 

Mr.  Meagles  looked  at  his  wife,  and  at  Clennam  ;  bit  his 
lip;  and  coughed. 

"  And  now  here's  my  good  fellow,"  Mrs.  Gowan  pursued, 
"  receiving  notice  that  he  is  to  hold  himself  in  expectation 
of  a  baby,  and  all  the  expenses  attendant  on  such  an  addi- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  523 

tion  to  his  family  !  Poor  Henry  !  But  it  can't  be  helped 
now,  it's  too  late  to  help  it  now.  Only  don't  talk  of  antici- 
pating means,  papa  Meagles,  as  a  discovery  ;  because  that 
would  be  too  much." 

"  Too  much,  ma'am  ?  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  as  seeking  an 
explanation. 

'*  There,  there  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  putting  him  in  his  in- 
ferior place  with  an  expressive  action  of  her  hand.  "  Too 
much  for  my  poor  fellow's  mother  to  bear  at  this  time  of  day. 
They  are  fast  married,  and  can't  be  unmarried.  There, 
there  !  I  know  that !  You  needn't  tell  me  that,  papa  Mea- 
gles. I  know  it  very  well.  What  was  it  I  said  just  now  ? 
That  it  was  a  great  comfort  they  continued  happy.  It 
is  to  be  hoped  they  will  still  continue  happy.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  Pretty  One  will  do  every  thing  she  can  to  make  my 
poor  fellow  happy,  and  keep  him  contented.  Papa  and  mam- 
ma Meagles,  we  had  better  say  no  more  about  it.  We  never 
did  look  at  this  subject  from  the  same,  side,  and  we  never 
shall.     There,  there  !     Now  I  am  good." 

Truly,  having  by  this  time  said  every  thing  she  could  say 
in  maintenance  of  her  wonderfully  mythical  position,  and  in 
admonition  to  Mr.  Meagles  that  he  must  not  expect  to  bear 
his  honors  of  alliance  too  cheaply,  Mrs.  Gowan  was  disposed 
to  forego  the  rest.  If  Mr.  Meagles  had  submitted  to  a  glance 
of  entreaty  from  Mrs.  Meagles,  and  an  expressive  gesture 
from  Clennam,  he  would  have  left  her  in  the  undisturbed 
enjoyment  of  this  state  of  mind.  But  Pet  was  the  darUng 
and  pride  of  his  heart;  and  if  he  could  ever  have  championed 
her  more  devotedly,  or  loved  her  better,  than  in  the  days 
when  she  was  the  sunlight  of  his  house,  it  would  have  been 
now,  when  in  its  daily  grace  and  delight,  she  was  lost  to  it. 

"  Mrs.  Gowan,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  I  have  been 
a  plain  man  all  my  life.  If  I  was  to  try — no  matter  whether 
on  myself,  on  somebody  else,  or  both — any  genteel  mystifi- 
cations, I  should  probably  not  succeed  in  them," 

"  Papa  Meagles,"  returned  the  Dowager,  with  an  affable 
smile,  but  with  the  bloom  on  her  cheeks  standing  out  a  little 
more  vividly  than  usual,  as  the  neighboring  surface  became 
paler,  "  probably  not." 

"  Therefore,  my  good  madam,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  at  great 
pains  to  restrain  himself,  ^'  I  hope  I  may,  without  offense, 
ask  to  have  no  such  mystifications  played  off  upon  me." 

**  Mamma  Meagles,"  observed  Mrs.  Gowan,  "your  good 
man  is  incomprehensible." 


524  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Her  turning  to  that  worthy  lady  was  an  artifice  to  bring 
her  into  the  discussion,  quarrel  with  her,  and  vanquish  her. 
Mr.  Meagles  interposed  to  prevent  that  consummation. 

"  Mother,"  said  he,  "  you  are  inexpert,  my  dear,  and  it  is 
not  a  fair  match.  Let  me  beg  of  you  to  remain  quiet.  Come, 
Mrs.  Gowan,  come  !  Let  us  try  to  be  sensible;  let  us  try  to 
be  good-natured;  let  us  try  to  be  fair.  Don't  you  pity  Henry, 
and  I  won't  pity  Pet.  And  don't  be  one-sided,  my  dear 
madam;  it's  not  considerate,  it's  not  kind.  Don't  let  us  say 
that  we  hope  Pet  will  make  Henry  happy,  or  even  that  we 
hope  Henry  will  make  Pet  happy  "  (Mr.  Meagles  himself  did 
not  look  happy  as  he  spoke  the  words),  "  but  let  us  hope  they 
will  make  each  other  happy." 

^' Yes,  sure,  and  there  leave  it,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Meagles, 
the  kind-hearted  and  comfortable. 

"  Why,  mother,  no,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles,  "  not  exactly 
there.  I  can't  quite  leave  it  there;  I  must  say  just  half,  a- 
dozen  words  more.  Mrs.  Gowan,  I  hope  I'm  not  over-sensi- 
tive.    I  believe  I  don't  look  it." 

*'  Indeed  you  do  not,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  shaking  her  head 
and  the  great  green  fan  together,  for  emphasis. 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am;  that's  well.  Notwithstanding  which 
I  feel  a  little — I  don't  want  to  use  a  strong  word — now  shall 
I  say  hurt  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Meagles  at  once  with  frankness  and 
moderation,  and  with  a  conciliatory  appeal  in  his  tone. 

"  Say  what  you  like,"  answered  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  It  is  per- 
fectly indifferent  to  me." 

**  No,  no,  don't  say  that,"  urged  Mr.  Meagles,  **  because 
that's  not  responding  amiably.  I  feel  a  little  hurt  when  I 
hear  references  made  to  consequences  having  been  foreseen, 
and  to  its  being  too  late  now,  and  so  forth." 

^'  Do  you,  papa  Meagles  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan.  "  I  am  not 
surprised." 

"Well,  ma'am,"  reasoned  Mr.  Meagles,  "I  was  in  hopes 
you  would  have  been  at  least  surprised,  because  to  hurt  me 
willfully  on  so  tender  a  subject  is  surely  not  generous." 

"  I  am  not  responsible,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  *'  for  your  con- 
science, you  know." 

Poor  Mr.  Meagles  looked  aghast  with  astonishment. 

"  If  I  am  unluckily  obliged  to  carry  a  cap  about  with  me, 
which  is  yours  and  fits  you,"  pursued  Mrs.  Gowan,  **  don't 
blame  me  for  its  pattern,  papa  Meagles,  I  beg  !  " 

"  Why,  good  Lord,  ma'am  !  "  Mr.  Meagles  broke  out, 
"that's  as  much  as  to  state " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  525 

"  Now,  papa  Meagles,  papa  Meagles,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan, 
who  became  extremely  deliberate  and  prepossessing  in  man- 
ner whenever  that  gentleman  became  at  all  warm,  "  perhaps  to 
prevent  confusion,  I  had  better  speak  for  myself  than  trouble 
your  kindness  to  speak  for  me.  It's  as  much  as  to  state,  you 
begin.  If  you  please,  I  will  finish  the  sentence.  It  is  as 
much  as  to  state — not  that  I  wish  to  press  it,  or  even  to  recall 
it,  for  it  is  of  no  use  now,  and  my  only  wish  is  to  make  the 
best  of  existing  circumstances — that  from  the  first  to  the 
last  I  always  objected  to  this  match  of  yours,  and  at  a  very 
late  period  yielded  a  most  unwilling  consent  to  it." 

"  Mother  r'  cried  Mr.  Meagles.  "Do  you  hear  this  .^ 
Arthur  !     Do  you  hear  this  ? " 

"  The  room  being  of  a  convenient  size,'*  said  Mrs.  Gowan, 
looking  about  as  she  fanned  herself,  *'  and  quite  charmingly 
adapted  in  all  respects  to  conversation,  I  should  imagine  I 
am  audible  in  any  part  of  it." 

Some  moments  passed  in  silence,  before  Mr.  Meagles 
could  hold  himself  in  his  chair  with  sufficient  security  to 
prevent  his  breaking  out  of  it  at  the  next  word  he  spoke.  At 
last  he  said  :  "  Ma'am,  I  am  very  unwilling  to  revive  them, 
but  I  must  remind  you  of  what  my  opinions  and  my  course 
were,  all  along,  on  that  unfortunate  subject." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  sir  !  "  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  smiling  and  shak- 
ing her  head  with  accusatory  intelligence,  "  they  were  well 
understood  by  me,  I  assure  you." 

*'  I  never,  ma'am,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  **  knew  unhappiness 
before  that  time,  I  never  knew  anxiety  before  that  time.     It 

was  a  time  of  such   distress   to  me   that "     That  Mr. 

Meagles  could  really  say  no  more  about  it,  in  short,  but 
passed  his  handkerchief  before  his  face. 

"  I  understood  the  whole  affair,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  com- 
posedly looking  over  her  fan.  ^^  As  you  have  appealed  to 
Mr.  Clennam,  I  may  appeal  to  Mr.  Clennam,  too.  He  knows 
whether  I  did  or  not." 

"  I  am  very  unwilling,"  said  Clennam,  looked  to  by  all 
parties,  *'  to  take  any  share  in  this  discussion,  more  espe- 
cially because  I  wish  to  preserve  the  best  understanding  and 
the  clearest  relations  with  Mr.  Henry  Gowan.  I  have  very 
strong  reasons  indeed,  for  entertaining  that  wish.  Mrs, 
Gowan  attributed  certain  views  of  furthering  the  marriage 
to  my  friend  here,  in  conversation  with  me  before  it  took 
place  ;  and  I  endeavored  to  undeceive  her.     I  represented 


526  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  I  knew  him  (as  I  did  and  do)  to  be  strenuously  opposed 
to  it,  both  in  opinion  and  action." 

'^  You  see  ? "  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  turning  the  palms  of  her 
hands  toward  Mr.  Meagles,  as  if  she  were  Justice  herself, 
representing  to  him  that  he  had  better  confess,  for  he  had 
not  a  leg  to  stand  on.  "  You  see  ?  Very  good  !  Now, 
papa  and  mamma  Meagles  both  !  *'  here  she  rose  ;  "  allow  me 
to  take  the  liberty  of  putting  an  end  to  this  rather  formid- 
able controversy.  I  will  not  say  another  word  upon  its 
merits.  I  will  only  say  that  it  is  an  additional  proof  of  what 
one  knows  from  all  experience  ;  that  this  kind  of  thing 
never  answers — as  my  poor  fellow  himself  would  say,  that  it 
never  pays — in  one  word,  that  it  never  does." 

Mr.  Meagles  asked,  What  kind  of  thing  ? 

*'  It  is  in  vain,"  said  Mrs.  Gowan,  ^'  for  people  to  attempt 
to  get  on  together  who  have  such  extremely  different  ante- 
cedents ;  who  are  jumbled  against  each  other  in  this  acci- 
dental, matrimonial  sort  of  way  ;  and  who  can  not  look  at 
the  untoward  circumstance  which  has  shaken  them  together 
in  the  .same  light.     It  never  does." 

Mr.  Meagles  was  beginning,  ^'  Permit  me  to  say,  ma'am — " 

"  No,  don't,"  returned  Mrs.  Gowan.  ^'  Why  should  you  ! 
It  is  an  ascertained  fact.  It  never  does.  I  will  therefore, 
if  you  please,  go  my  way,  leaving  you  to  yours.  I  shall  at 
all  times  be  happy  to  receive  my  poor  fellow's  pretty  wife, 
and  I  shall  always  make  a  point  of  being  qn  the  most  affec- 
tionate terms  with  her.  But  as  to  these  terms,  semi-family 
and  semi-stranger,  semi-goring  and  semi-boring,  they  form  a 
state  of  things  quite  amusing  in  its  impracticability.  I  assure 
you  it  never  does." 

The  dowager  here  made  a  smiling  obeisance,  rather  to 
the  room  than  to  any  one  in  it,  and  therewith  took  a  final  fare- 
well of  papa  and  mamma  Meagles.  Clennam  stepped  for- 
ward to  hand  her  to  the  pill-box,  which  was  at  the  service 
of  all  the  pills  in  Hampton  Court  Palace  ;  and  she  got  into 
that  vehicle  with  distinguished  serenity,  and  was  driven 
away. 

Thenceforth  the  dowager,  with  a  light  and  careless  humor, 
often  recounted  to  her  particular  acquaintance  how,  after  a 
hard  trial,  she  had  found  it  impossible  to  know  those  people 
who  belonged  to  Henry's  wife,  and  who  had  made  that 
desperate  set  to  catch  him.  Whether  she  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  beforehand,  that  to  get  rid  of  them  would  give 
her  favorite  pretense  a  better  air,  might   save   her   some 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  527 

occasional  inconvenience,  and  could  risk  no  loss  (the  pretty 
creature  being  fast  married,  and  her  father  devoted  to  her), 
was  best  known  to  herself.  Though  this  history  has  its 
opinion  on  that  point  too,  and  decidedly  in  the  affirmative. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

APPEARANCE    AND   DISAPPEARANCE. 

"Arthur,  my  dear  boy,''  said  Mr.  Meagles,  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  following  day,  "  mother  and  I  have  been  talking 
this  over,  and  we  don't  feel  comfortable  in  remaining  as  we 
are.  That  elegant  connection  of  ours — that  dear  lady  who 
was  here  yesterday " 

^'  I  understand,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Even  that  affable  and  condescending  ornament  of 
society,"  pursued  Mr.  Meagles,  "may  misrepresent  us,  we 
are  afraid.  We  could  bear  a  great  deal,  Arthur,  for  her 
sake;  but  we  think  we  would  rather  not  bear  that,  if  it  was 
all  the  same  to  her." 

"  Good,"  said  Arthur.     "  Go  on." 

"  You  see,"  proceeded  Mr.  Meagles,  "  it  might  put  us 
wrong  with  our  son-in-law,  it  might  even  put  us  wrong  with 
our  daughter,  and  it  might  lead  to  a  great  deal  of  domestic 
trouble.     You  see,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  returned  Arthur,  "  there  is  much  reason  in 
what  you  say."  He  had  glanced  at  Mrs.  Meagles,  who  was 
always  on  the  good  and  sensible  side;  and  a  petition  had 
shone  out  of  her  honest  face  that  he  would  support  Mr. 
Meagles  in  his  present  inclinings. 

"  So  we  are  very  much  disposed,  are  mother  and  I,"  said 
Mr.  Meagles,  '*  to  pack  up  bag  and  baggage  and  go  among 
the  allongers  and  marshongers  once  more.  I  mean,,  we  are 
very  much  disposed  to  be  off,  strike  right  through  France 
into  Italy,  and  see  our  Pet." 

"And  I  don't  think,"  replied  Arthur,  touched  by  the 
motherly  anticipation  in  the  bright  face  of  Mrs.  Meagles 
(she  must  have  been  very  like  her  daughter,  once),  "  that 
you  could  do  better.  And  if  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  it  is 
that  you  set  off  to-morrow." 

"  Is  it  really,  though  ? "  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  Mother, 
this  is  being  backed  in  an  idea  ?  " 


528  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mother,  with  a  look  which  thanked  Clennam  in  a  manner 
very  agreeable  to  hitn,  answered  that  it  was  indeed. 

*' The  fact  is,  besides,  Arthur/*  said  Mr.  Meagles,  the  old 
cloud  coming  over  his  face,  "  that  my  son-in-law  is  already 
in  debt  again,  and  that  I  suppose  I  must  clear  him  again.  It 
may  be  as  well,  even  on  this  account,  that  I  should  step 
over  there,  and  look  him  up  in  a  friendly  way.  Then  again, 
here's  mother  foolishly  anxious  (and  yet  naturally  too) 
about  Pet's  state  of  health,  and  that  she  should  not  be  left  to 
feel  lonesome  at  the  present  time.  It's  undeniably  a  long  way 
off,  Arthur,  and  a  strange  place  for  the  poor  love  under  all 
the  circumstances.  Let  her  be  as  well  cared  for  as  any  lady 
in  that  land,  still  it  is  a  long  way  off.  Just  as  home  is  home 
though  it's  never  so  homely,  why  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Meagles, 
adding  a  new  version  to  the  proverb,  *'  Rome  is  Rome, 
though  it's  never  so  Romely." 

"  All  perfectly  true,"  observed  Arthur,  **  and  all  sufficient 
reasons  for  going." 

'*!  am  glad  you  think  so;  it  decides  me.  Mother,  my 
dear,  you  may  get  ready.  We  have  lost  our  pleasant  inter- 
preter (she  spoke  three  foreign  languages  beautifully,  Arthur; 
you  have  heard  her  many  a  time),  and  you  must  pull  me 
through  it,  mother,  as  well  as  you  can.  I  require  a  great  deal 
of  pulling  through,  Arthur,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his 
head,  ^^a  deal  of  pulling  through.  I  stick  at  every  thing 
beyond  a  noun-substantive — and  I  stick  at  him,  if  he's  at  all 
a  tight  one." 

'^  Now  I  think  of  it,"  returned  Clennam,  "  there's  Caval- 
letto.  He  shall  go  with  you,  if  you  like.  I  could  not  afford 
to  lose  him,  but  you  will  bring  him  safe  back.'* 

"  Well !  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles,  turning  it  over,  ^*  but  I  think  not.  No,  I  think  I'll 
be  pulled  through  by  mother.  Cavallooro  (I  stick  at  his 
very  name  to  start  with,  and  it  sounds  like  the  chorus  to  a 
comic  song)  is  so  necessary  to  you,  that  I  don't  like  the 
thought  of  taking  him  away.  More  than  that,  there's  no 
saying  when  we  may  come  home  again;  and  it  would  never 
do  to  take  him  away  for  an  indefinite  time.  The  cottage  is 
not  what  it  was.  It  only  holds  two  little  people  less  than  it 
ever  did.  Pet,  and  her  poor  unfortunate  maid  Tattycoram; 
but  it  seems  empty  now.  Once  out  of  it,  there's  no  know- 
ing when  we  may  come  back  to  it.  No,  Arthur,  I'll  be 
pulled  through  by  mother." 

They    would  do    best    by    themselves,     perhaps,     after 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  529 

all,  Clennam  thought  ;  therefore  did  not  press  his  pro- 
posal. 

"  If  you  would  come  down  and  stay  here  for  a  change, when 
it  wouldn't  trouble  you,"  Mr.  Meagles  resumed,  ^^  I  should  be 
glad  to  think — and  so  would  mother  too,  I  know — that  you 
were  brightening  up  the  old  place  with  a  bit  of  life  it  was 
used  to  when  it  was  full,  and  that  the  babies  on  the  wall 
there  had  a  kind  eye  upon  them  sometimes.  You  so  belong 
to  the  spot,  and  to  them,  Arthur,  and  we  should  every  one 
of  us  have  been  so  happy  if  it  had  fallen  out — but,  let  us  see 
— how's  the  weather  for  traveling,  now  ?  '*  Mr.  Meagles 
broke  off,  cleared  his  throat,  and  got  up  to  look  out  the 
window. 

They  agreed  that  the  weather  was  of  high  promise  ;  and 
Clennam  kept  the  talk  in  that  safe  direction  until  it  had 
become  easy  again,  when  he  gently  diverted  it  to  Henry 
Gowan,  and  his  quick  sense  and  agreeable  qualities  when  he 
was  delicately  dealt  with  ;  he  likewise  dwelt  on  the  indispu- 
table affection  he  entertained  for  his  wife.  Clennam  did  not 
fail  of  his  effect  upon  good  Mr.  Meagles,  whom  these  com- 
mendations greatly  cheered  ;  and  who  took  mother  to  witness 
that  the  single  and  cordial  desire  of  his  heart  in  reference 
to  their  daughter's  husband,  was  harmoniously  to  exchange 
friendship  for  friendship,  and  confidence  for  confidence. 
Within  a  few  hours  the  cottage  furniture  began  to  be  wrapped 
up  for  preservation  in  the  family  absence — or,  as  Mr.  Mea- 
gles expressed  it,  the  house  began  to  put  its  hair  in  papers — 
and  within  a  few  days  father  and  mother  were  gone,  Mrs. 
Tickit  and  Dr.  Buchan  were  posted,  as  of  yore,  behind  the 
parlor  blind,  and  Arthur's  solitary  feet  were  rustling  among 
the  dry  fallen  leaves  in  the  garden  walks. 

As  he  had  a  liking  for  the  spot,  he  seldom  let  a  week  pass 
without  paying  it  a  visit.  Sometimes,  he  went  down  alone 
from  Saturday  to  Monday  ;  sometimes,  his  partner  accom- 
panied him  ;  sometimes,  he  merely  strolled  for  an  hour  or 
two  about  the  house  and  garden,  saw  that  all  was  right,  and 
returned  to  London  again.  At  all  times,  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances Mrs.  Tickit,  with  her  dark  row  of  curls,  and 
Dr.  Buchan,  sat  in  the  parlor  window,  looking  out  for  the 
family  return. 

On  one  of  his  visits  Mrs.  Tickit  received  him  with  the 
words,  "  I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Clennam,  that  will 
surprise  you.'*  So  surprising  was  the  something  in  question, 
that  it  actually  brought  Mrs.  Tickit  out  of  the  parlor  window 


530  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  produced  her  in  the  garden  walk,  when  Clennam  went 
in  at  the  gate  on  its  being  opened  for  him. 

"  What  is  it,  Mrs.  Tickit  ?  "  said  he. 

*^  Sir,**  returned  that  faithful  housekeeper,  having  taken 
him  into  the  parlor  and  closed  the  door  ;  "  if  ever  I  saw  the 
led  away  and  deluded  child  in  my  life,  I  saw  her  identically 
in  the  dusk  of  yesterday  evening." 

^*  You  don't  mean  Tatty ** 

"  Coram,  yes,  I  do  !  '*  quoth  Mrs.  Tickit,  clearing  the  dis- 
closure at  a  leap. 

''  Where  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Clennam,"  returned  Mrs.  Tickit,  "  I  was  a  little 
heavy  in  my  eyes,  being  that  I  was  waiting  longer  than  cus- 
tomary for  my  cup  of  tea  which  was  then  preparing  by  Mary 
Jane.  I  was  not  sleeping,  not  what  a  person  would  term 
correctly,  dozing.  I  was  more  what  a  person  would  strictly 
call  watching  with  my  eyes  closed." 

Without  entering  upon  an  inquiry  into  this  curious  abnor- 
mal condition,  Clennam  said,  "  Exactly.     Well  ?" 

**  Well  sir,"  proceeded  Mrs.  Tickit,  "  I  was  thinking  of 
one  thing  and  thinking  of  another.  Just  as  you  yourself 
might.     Just  as  any  body  might." 

*'  Precisely  so,"  said  Clennam.     *'  Well  ?  " 

*'  And  when  I  do  think  of  one  thing  and  do  think  of  an- 
other," pursued  Mrs.  Tickit,  "  I  hardly  need  to  tell  you,  Mr. 
Clennam,  that  I  think  of  the  family.  Because,  dear  me  !  a 
person's  thoughts,"  Mrs.  Tickit  said  this  with  an  argumenta- 
tive and  philosophic  air,  "  however  they  may  stray,  will  go 
more  or  less  on  what  is  uppermost  in  their  minds.  They  ze//// 
do  it,  sir,  and  a  person  can't  prevent  them.'* 

Arthur  subscribed  to  this  discovery  with  a  nod. 

"  You  find  it  so  yourself,  sir,  I'll  be  bold  to  say,**  said  Mrs. 
Tickit,  "  and  we  all  find  it  so.  It  ain't  our  stations  in  life 
that  changes  us,  Mr.  Clennam  ;  thoughts  is  free  ! — As  I  was 
saying,  I  was  thinking  of  one  thing  and  thinking  of  another, 
and  thinking  very  much  of  the  family.  Not  of  the  family  in 
the  present  times  only,  but  in  the  past  times  too.  For  when 
a  person  does  begin  thinking  of  one  thing  and  thinking  of 
another,  in  that  manner,  as  it's  getting  dark,  what  I  say  is, 
that  all  times  seem  to  be  present,  and  a  person  must  get  out  of 
that  state  and  consider  before  they  can  say  which  is  which." 

He  nodded  again  ;  afraid  to  utter  a  word,  lest  it  should 
present  any  new  opening  to  Mrs.  Tiqkit's  conversational 
'Sowers, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  531 

"  In  consequence  of  which,"  said  Mrs.  Tickit,  "when  I 
quivered  my  eyes  and  saw  her  actual  form  and  figure  looking 
in  at  the  gate,  I  let  them  close  again  without  so  much  as  start- 
ing, for  that  actual  form  and  figure  came  so  pat  to  the  time 
when  it  belonged  to  the  house  as  much  as  mine  or  your 
own,  that  I  never  thought  at  the  moment  of  its  having  gone 
away.  But,  sir,  when  I  quivered  my  eyes  again,  and  saw 
that  it  wasn't  there,  then  it  all  flooded  upon  me  with  a  fright, 
and  I  jumped  up." 

"  You  ran  out  directly  ?  "  said  Clennam. 

"I  ran  out,"  assented  Mrs.  Tickit,  "as  fast  as  ever  mj 
feet  would  carry  me  ;  and  if  you'll  credit  it,  Mr.  Clennam, 
there  wasn't  in  the  whole  shining  heavens,  no,  not  so  much 
as  a  finger  of  that  young  woman." 

Passing  over  the  absence  from  the  firmament  of  this  novel 
constellation,  Arthur  inquired  of  Mrs.  Tickit  if  she  herself 
went  beyond  the  gate  ? 

"  Went  to  and  fro,  and  high  and  low,"  said  Mrs.  Tickit, 
"  and  saw  no  sign  of  her." 

He  then  asked  Mrs.  Tickit  how  long  a  space  of  time  she 
supposed  there  might  have  been  between  the  two  sets  of 
ocular  quiverings  she  had  experienced  ?  Mrs.  Tickit, 
though  minutely  circumstantial  in  her  reply,  had  no  set- 
tled opinion  between  five  seconds  and  ten  minutes.  She 
was  so  plainly  at  sea  on  this  part  of  the  case,  and  had 
so  clearly  been  startled  out  of  slumber,  that  Clennam  was 
much  disposed  to  regard  the  appearance  as  a  dream. 
Without  hurting  Mrs.  Tickit's  feelings  with  that  infidel 
solution  of  her  mystery,  he  took  it  away  from  the  cottage 
with  him  ;  and  probably  would  have  retained  it  ever 
afterward  if  a  circumstance  had  not  soon  happened  to 
change  his  opinion. 

He  was  passing  at  nightfall  along  the  Strand,  and  the 
lamp-lighter  was  going  on  before  him,  under  whose  hand 
the  street-lamps,  blurred  by  the  foggy  air,  burst  out  one 
after  another,  like  so  many  blazing  sunflowers  coming  into 
full-blow  all  at  once — when  a  stoppage  on  the  pavement, 
caused  by  a  train  of  coal-wagons  toiling  up  from  the  wharves 
at  the  riverside,  brought  him  to  a  stand-still.  He  had  been 
walking  quickly,  and  going  with  some  current  of  thought, 
and  the  sudden  check  given  to  both  operations  caused  him 
to  look  freshly  about  him,  as  people  under  such  circumstan- 
ces usually  do. 

Immediately,  he  saw  in  advance — a  few  people  interven- 


532  LITTLE  DORRLr. 

ing,  but  still  so  near  to  him  that  he  could  have  touched 
them  by  stretching  out  his  arm — Tattycoram  and  a  strange 
man  of  a  remarkable  appearance  :  a  swaggering  man,  with  a 
high  nose,  and  a  black  mustache  as  false  in  its  color  as  his 
eyes  were  false  in  their  expression,  who  wore  his  heavy 
cloak  with  the  air  of  a  foreigner.  His  dress  and  general 
appearance  were  those  of  a  man  on  travel,  and  he  seemed  to 
have  very  recently  joined  the  girl.  In  bending  down  (being 
much  taller  than  she  was),  listening  to  whatever  she  said  to 
him,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  with  the  suspicious  glance 
of  one  who  was  not  unused  to  be  mistrustful  that  his  foot- 
steps might  be  dogged.  It  was  then  that  Clennam  saw  his 
face  ;  as  his  eyes  lowered  on  the  people  behind  him  in  the 
aggregate,  without  particularly  resting  upon  Clennam's  face 
or  any  other. 

He  had  scarcely  turned  his  head  about  again,  and  it  was 
still  bent  down,  listening  to  the  girl,  when  the  stoppage 
ceased,  and  the  obstructed  stream  of  people  flowed  on. 
Still  bending  his  head  and  listening  to  the  girl,  he  went  on 
at  her  side,  and  Clennam  followed  them,  resolved  to  play 
this  unexpected  play  out,  and  see  where  they  went. 

He  had  hardly  made  the  determination  (though  he  was 
not  long  about  it),  when  he  was  again  as  suddenly  brought 
up  as  he  had  been  by  the  stoppage.  They  turned  short 
into  the  Adelphi — the  girl  evidently  leading  —  and  went 
straight  on,  as  if  they  v/ere  going  to  the  terrace  which  over- 
hangs the  river. 

There  is  always,  to  this  day,  a  sudden  pause  in  that  place 
to  the  roar  of  the  great  thoroughfare.  The  many  sounds 
become  so  deadened  that  the  change  is  like  putting  cotton 
in  the  ears,  or  having  the  head  thickly  muffled.  At  that 
time  the  contrast  was  far  greater  ;  there  being  no  small 
steamboats  on  the  river,  no  landing  places  but  slippery 
wooden  stairs  and  foot-causeways,  no  railroad  on  the  oppo- 
site bank,  no  hanging  bridge  or  fish-market  near  at  hand, 
no  traffic  on  the  nearest  bridge  of  stone,  nothing  moving  on 
the  stream  but  watermen's  wherries  and  coal-lighters.  Long 
and  broad  black  tiers  of  the  latter,  moored  fast  in  the  mud 
as  if  they  were  never  to  move  again,  made  the  shore  funereal 
and  silent  after  dark  ;  and  kept  what  little  water-movement 
there  was,  far  out  toward  mid-stream.  At  any  hour  later 
than  sunset,  and  not  least  at  that  hour  when  most  of  the 
people  who  have  any  thing  to  eat  at  home  are  going  home  to 
eat  it,  and  when  most  of  those  who  have  nothing  have  hardly 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  533 

yet  slunk  out  to  beg  or  steal,  it  was  a  deserted  place  and 
looked  on  a  deserted  scene. 

Such  was  the  hour  when  Clennam  stopped  at  the  corner, 
observing  the  girl  and  the  strange  man  as  they  went  down  the 
street.  The  man's  footsteps  were  so  noisy  on  the  echoing 
stones  that  he  was  unwilling  to  add  the  sound  of  his  own. 
But  when  they  had  passed  the  turning  and  were  in  the  dark- 
ness of  the  dark  corner  leading  to  the  terrace,  he  made  after 
them  with  such  indifferent  appearance  of  being  a  casual 
passenger  on  his  way,  as  he  could  assume. 

When  he  rounded  the  dark  corner,  they  were  walking 
along  the  terrace,  toward  a  figure  which  was  coming  toward 
them.  If  he  had  seen  it  by  itself,  under  such  conditions  of 
gas-lamp,  mist,  and  distance,  he  might  not  have  known  it  at 
first  sight,  but  with  the  figure  of  the  girl  to  prompt  him,  he 
at  once  recognized  Miss  Wade. 

He  stopped  at  the  corner,  seeming  to  look  back  expect- 
antly up  the  street,  as  if  he  had  made  an  appointment  with 
some  one  to  meet  him  there  ;  but  he  kept  a  careful  eye  on 
the  three.  When  they  came  together,  the  man  took  off  his 
hat,  and  made  Miss  Wade  a  bow.  The  girl  appeared  to  say 
a  few  words  as  though  she  presented  him,  or  accounted  for 
his  being  late,  or  early,  or  what  not  ;  and  then  fell  a  pace  or 
so  behind,  by  herself.  Miss  Wade  and  the  man  then  began 
to  walk  up  and  down  ;  the  man  having  the  appearance  of 
being  extremely  courteous  and  complimentary  in  manner  ; 
Miss  Wade  having  the  appearance  of  being  extremely 
haughty. 

When  they  came  down  to  the  corner  and  turned,  she  was 
saying,  ''  If  I  pinch  myself  for  it,  sir,  that  is  my  business. 
Confine  yourself  to  yours,  and  ask  me  no  question." 

"  By  heaven,  ma'am  !  "  he  replied,  making  her  another 
bow.  "  It  was  my  profound  respect  for  the  strength  of  your 
character,  and  my  admiration  of  your  beauty." 

"  I  want  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  from  any  one," 
said  she,  '*  and  certainly  not  from  you  of  all  creatures.  Go 
on  with  your  report." 

**  Am  I  pardoned  ?  "  he  asked,  with  an  air  of  half  abashed 
gallantry. 

"You  are  paid,"  she  said,  "  and  that  is  all  you  want." 

Whether  the  girl  hung  behind  because  she  was  not  to 
hear  the  business,  or  as  already  knowing  enough  about  it, 
Clennam  could  not  determine.  They  turned  and  she  turned. 
She  looked  away  at  the  river,  as  she  walked  with  her  hands 


534  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

folded  before  her  ;  and  that  was  all  he  could  make  of  her 
without  showing  his  face.  There  happened,  by  good  for- 
tune, to  be  a  lounger  really  waiting  for  some  one  ;  and  he 
sometimes  looked  over  the  railing  at  the  water,  and  some- 
times came  to  the  dark  corner  and  looked  up  the  street, 
rendering  Arthur  less  conspicuous. 

When  Miss  Wade  and  the  man  came  back  again,  she  was 
saying,  "You  must  wait  until  to-morrow." 

'*  A  thousand  pardons  !  "  he  returnedo  "  My  faith  !  Then 
it's  not  convenient  to-night  ?  " 

"  No.  I  tell  you  I  must  get  it  before  I  can  give  it  to 
you." 

She  stopped  in  the  roadway,  as  if  to  put  an  end  to  the 
conference.  He  of  course  stopped  too.  And  the  girl 
stopped. 

"  It's  a  little  inconvenient/*  said  the  man.  "  A  little. 
But,  holy  blue  !  that's  nothing  in  such  a  service.  I  am 
without  money,  to-night,  by  chance.  I  have  a  good  banker 
in  this  city,  but  I  would  not  wish  to  draw  upon  the  house 
until  the  time  when  I  shall  draw  for  a  round  sum." 

*^  Harriet,**  said  Miss  Wade,  *^  arrange  with  him — this 
gentleman  here — for  sending,  him  some  money  to-morrow." 
She  said  it  with  a  slur  of  the  word  gentleman  which 
was  more  contemptuous  than  any  emphasis,  and  walked 
slowly  on. 

The  man  bent  his  head  again,  and  the  girl  spoke  to  him 
as  they  both  followed  her.  Clennam  ventured  to  look  at  the 
girl  as  they  moved  away.  He  could  note  that  her  rich 
black  eyes  were  fastened  upon  the  man  with  a  scrutinizing 
expression,  and  that  she  kept  at  a  little  distance  from  him, 
as  they  walked  side  by  side  to  the  further  end  of  the  terrace. 

A  loud  and  altered  clank  upon  the  pavement  warned  him, 
before  he  could  discern  what  was  passing  there,  that  the 
man  was  coming  back  alone.  Clennam  lounged  into  the 
road,  toward  the  railing  ;  and  the  man  passed  at  a  quick 
swing,  with  the  end  of  his  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulder, 
singing  a  scrap  of  a  French  song. 

The  whole  vista  had  no  one  in  it  now  but  himself.  The 
lounger  had  lounged  out  of  view,  and  Miss  Wade  and  Tatty- 
coram  were  gone.  More  than  ever  bent  on  seeing  what  be- 
came of  them,  and  on  having  some  information  to  give  his 
good  friend  Mr.  Meagles,  he  went  out  at  the  further  end  of 
the  terrace,  looking  cautiously  about  him.  He  rightly  judged 
that,  at  first,  at  all  events,  they  would  go  in  a  contrary  direc- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  535 

tion  from  their  late  companion.  He  soon  saw  them  in  a 
neighboring  by-street,  which  was  not  a  thoroughfare,  evi- 
dently allowing  time  for  the  man  to  get  well  out  of  their  way. 
They  walked  leisurely  arm-in-arm  down  one  side  of  the  street, 
and  returned  on  the  opposite  side.  When  they  came  back 
to  the  street-corner,  they  changed  their  pace  for  the  pace  of 
people  with  an  object  and  a  distance  before  them,  and  walked 
steadily  away.     Clennam,  no  less  steadily,  kept  them  in  sight. 

They  crossed  the  Strand,  and  passed  through  Covent  Gar- 
den (under  the  windows  of  his  old  lodging  where  dear  Little 
Dorrit  had  come  that  night),  and  slanted  away  north-east, 
until  they  passed  the  great  building  whence  Tattycoram 
derived  her  name,  and  turned  into  Gray's  Inn  Road.  Clen- 
nam was  quite  at  home  here,  in  right  of  Flora,  not  to  men- 
tion the  patriarch  and  Pancks,  and  kept  them  in  view  with 
ease.  He  was  beginning  to  wonder  where  they  might  be  going 
next,  when  that  wonder  was  lost  in  the  greater  wonder  with 
which  he  saw  them  turn  into  the  patriarchal  street.  That 
wonder  was  in  its  turn  swallowed  up  in  the  greater  wonder 
with  which  he  saw  them  stop  at  the  patriarchal  door.  A  low 
double  knock  at  the  bright  brass  knocker,  a  gleam  of  light 
into  the  road  from  the  opened  door,  a  brief  pause  for 
inquiry  and  answer,  and  the  door  was  shut,  and  they  were 
housed. 

After  looking  at  the  surrounding  objects  for  assurance 
that  he  was  not  in  an  odd  dream,  and  after  pacing  a 
little  while  before  the  house,  Arthur  knocked  at  the  door. 
It  was  opened  by  the  usual  maid-servant,  and  she  showed 
him  up  at  once,  with  her  usual  alacrity,  to  Flora's  sitting- 
room. 

There  was  no  one  with  Flora  but  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  which  re- 
spectable gentlewoman,  basking  in  a  balmy  atmosphere  of 
tea  and  toast,  was  ensconced  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fireside 
with  a  little  table  at  her  elbow,  and  a  clean  white  handkerchief 
spread  over  her  lap  on  which  two  pieces  of  toast  at  that 
moment  awaited  consumption.  Bending  over  a  steaming 
vessel  of  tea,  and  looking  through  the  steam,  and  breathing 
forth  the  steam,  like  a  malignant  Chinese  enchantress  en- 
gaged in  the  performance  of  unholy  rites,  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  put 
down  her  great  tea-cup  and  exclaimed,  "  Drat  him,  if  he  an't 
come  back  again  !  " 

It  would  seem  from  the  foregoing  exclamation  that  this 
uncompromising  relative  of  the  lamented  Mr.  F.  measuring 
time  by  the  acuteness  of  her  sensations  and  not  by  the  clock, 


536  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

supposed  Clennam  to  have  lately  gone  away;  whereas  at  least 
a  quarter  of  a  year  had  elapsed  since  he  had  had  the  temerity 
to  present  himself  before  her. 

"  My  goodness  Arthur  !  "  cried  Flora,  rising  to  give  him 
a  cordial  reception,  "  Doyce  and  Clennam  what  a  start  and 
a  surprise  for  though  not  far  from  the  machinery  and  foundry 
business  and  surely  might  be  taken  sometimes  if  at  no  other 
time  about  mid-day  when  a  glass  of  sherry  and  a  humble 
sandwich  of  whatever  cold  meat  in  the  larder  might  not  come 
amiss  nor  taste  the  worse  for  being  friendly  for  you  know 
you  buy  it  somewhere  and  whenever  bought  a  profit  must 
be  made  or  they  would  never  keep  the  place  it  stands  to  rea- 
son without  a  motive  still  never  seen  and  learned  now  not 
to  be  expected,  for  as  Mr.  F  himself  said  if  seeing  is 
believing  not  seeing  is  believing  too  and  when  you  don't  see 
you  may  fully  believe  you're  not  rememberd  not  that  I 
expect  you  Arthur  Doyce  and  Clennam  to  remember 
me  why  should  I  for  the  days  are  gone  but  bring  another  tea- 
cup here  directly  and  tell  her  fresh  toast  and  pray  sit  near 
the  fire." 

Arthur  was  in  the  greatest  anxiety  to  explain  the  object 
of  his  visit;  but  was  put  off  for  the  moment,  in  spite  of 
himself,  by  what  he  understood  of  the  reproachful  purport 
of  these  words,  and  by  the  genuine  pleasure  she  testified  in 
seeing  him. 

"  And  now  pray  tell  me  something  all  you  know,"  said 
Flora,  drawing  her  chair  near  to  his,  *' about  the  good  dear 
quiet  little  thing  and  all  the  changes  of  her  fortunes  carriage 
people  now  no  doubt  and  horses  without  number  most 
romantic,  a  coat  of  arms  of  course  and  wild  beasts  on  their 
hind  legs  showing  it  as  if  it  was  a  copy  they  had  done  with 
mouths  from  ear  to  ear  good  gracious,  and  has  she  her  health 
which  is  the  first  consideration  after  all  for  what  is  wealth 
without  it  Mr.  F.  himself  so  often  saying  when  his 
twinges  came  that  sixpence  a  day  and  find  yourself  and  no 
gout  so  much  preferable,  not  that  he  could  have  lived  on 
any  thing  like  it  being  the  last  man  or  that  the  precious  little 
thing  though  far  too  familiar  an  expression  now  had  any 
tendency  of  that  sort  much  too  slight  and  small  but  looked 
so  fragile  bless  her  !  " 

Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  who  had  eaten  a  piece  of  toast  down  to  the 
crust,  here  solemnly  handed  the  crust  to  Flora,  who  ate  it 
for  her  as  a  matter  of  business.  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  then 
moistened    her    ten    fingers  in  slow  succession  at  her  lips 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  537 

and  wiped  them  in  exactly  the  same  order  on  the  white 
handkerchief;  then  took  the  other  piece  of  toast  and  fell  to 
work  upon  it.  While  pursuing  this  routine,  she  looked  at 
Clennam  with  an  expression  of  such  intense  severity  that  he 
felt  obliged  to  look  at  her  in  return,  against  his  personal 
inclination. 

^*  She  is  in  Italy,  with  all  her  family,  Flora,"  he  said,  when 
the  dread  lady  was  occupied  again. 

"  In  Italy  is  she  really?  "  said  Flora,  "  with  the  grapes  and  figs 
growing  everywhere  and  lava  necklaces  and  bracelets  too  that 
land  of  poetry  with  burning  mountains  picturesque  beyond 
belief  though  if  the  organ-boys  come  away  from  the  neighbor- 
hood not  to  be  scorched  nobody  can  wonder  being  so  young 
and  bringing  their  white  mice  with  them  most  humane,  and 
is  she  really  in  that  favored  land  with  nothing  but  blue  about 
her  and  dying  gladiators  and  Belvederas  though  Mr.  F.  him- 
self did  not  believe  for  his  objection  when  in  spirits  was  that 
the  images  could  not  be  true  there  being  no  medium  between 
expensive  quantities  of  linen  badly  got  up  and  all  in  creases 
and  none  whatever,  which  certainly  does  not  seem  probable 
though  perhaps  in  consequence  of  the  extremes  of  rich  and 
poor  which  may  account  for  it." 

Arthur  tried  to  edge  a  word  in,  but  Flora  hurried  on  again. 

*'  Venice  preserved  too,"  said  she,  **  I  think  you  have  been 
there  is  it  well  or  ill  preserved  for  people  differ  so  and  mac- 
caroni  if  they  really  eat  it  like  the  conjurers  why  not  cut  it 
shorter,  you  are  acquainted  Arthur — dear  Doyce  and  Clen- 
nam at  least  not  dear  and  most  assuredly  not  Doyce  for  I 
have  not  the  pleasure  but  pray  excuse  me — acquainted  I  be- 
lieve with  Mantua  what  has  it  got  to  do  with  mantua-making 
for  I  never  have  been  able  to  conceive  ? " 

"  I  believe  there  is  no  connection.  Flora,  between  the  two," 
Arthur  was  beginning,  when  she  caught  him  up  again. 

'*  Upon  your  word  no  isn't  there  I  never  did  but  that's 
like  me  I  run  away  with  an  idea  and  having  none  to  spare  I 
keep  it,  alas  there  was  a  time  dear  Arthur  that  is  to  say  de- 
cidedly not  dear  nor  Arthur  neither  but  you  understand  me 
when  one  bright  idea  gilded  the  what's-his-name  horizon  of 
et  cetera  but  it  is  darkly  clouded  now  and  all  is  over." 

Arthur's  increasing  wish  to  speak  of  something  very  differ- 
ent was  by  this  time  so  plainly  written  on  his  face  that  Flora 
stopped  in  a  tender  look  and  asked  him  what  it  was  ? 

*^  I  have  the  greatest  desire,  Flora,  to  speak  to  some  one 
who  is  now  in  this  house — with  Mr.  Casby,  no  doubt.  Some 


538  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

one  whom  I  saw  come  in,  and  who,  in  a  misguided  and  de- 
plorable way,  has  deserted   the  house  of  a  friend  of  mine." 

"  Papa  sees  so  many  and  such  odd  people,"  said  Flora, 
rising,  "  that  I  shouldn't  venture  to  go  down  for  any  one  but 
you  Arthur  but  for  you  I  would  willingly  go  down  in  a  diving- 
bell  much  more  a  dining-room  and  will  come  back  directly 
if  you'll  mind  and  at  the  same  time  not  mind  Mr.  F.'s  aunt 
while  I'm  gone." 

With  those  words  and  a  parting  glance.  Flora  bustled  out, 
leaving  Clennam  under  dreadful  apprehensions  of  his  ter- 
rible charge. 

The  first  variation  which  manifested  itself  in  Mr.  F.'s  aunt's 
demeanor  when  she  had  finished  her  piece  of  toast,  was  a 
loud  and  prolonged  sniff.  Finding  it  impossible  to  avoid 
construing  this  demonstration  into  a  defiance  of  himself,  its 
gloomy  significance  being  unmistakable,  Clennam  looked 
plaintively  at  the  excellent  though  prejudiced  lady  from 
whom  it  emanated,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  be  disarmed 
by  a  meek  submission. 

"None  of  your  eyes  at  me,"  said  Mrs.  F.'s  aunt,  shivering 
with  hostility.     "  Take  that  !  " 

**  That "  was  the  crust  of  a  piece  of  toast.  Clennam  ac- 
cepted the  boon  with  a  look  of  gratitude,  and  held  it  in  his 
hand  under  the  pressure  of  a  little  embarrassment,  which  was 
not  relieved  when  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  elevating  her  voice  into  a 
cry  of  considerable  power,  exclaimed,  ''He  has  a  proud 
stomach,  this  chap  !  He's  too  proud  a  chap  to  eat  it !  " 
and,  coming  out  of  her  chair,  shook  her  venerable  fist  so 
very  close  to  his  nose  as  to  tickle  the  surface.  But  for  the 
timely  return  of  Flora,  to  find  him  in  this  difficult  situation, 
further  consequences  might  have  ensued.  Flora,  without 
the  least  discomposure  or  surprise,  but  congratulating  the 
old  lady  in  an  approving  manner  on  being  "  very  lively  to- 
night," handed  her  back  to  her  chair. 

"  He  has  a  proud  stomach,  this  chap,"  said  Mr.  F.'s  rela- 
tion, on  being  reseated.     "  Give  him  a  meal  of  chaff  !  " 

"Oh  !  I  don't  think  he  would  like  that,  aunt,"  returned 
Flora. 

"  Give  him  a  meal  of  chaff,  I  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  F.'s  aunt, 
glaring  round  Flora  on  her  enemy.  "  It's  the  only  thing  for  a 
proud  stomach.  Let  him  eat  up  every  morsel.  Drat  him^ 
give  him  a  meal  of  chaff  !  " 

Under  a  general  pretense  of  helping  him  to  this  refresh- 
ment,  Flora  got  him  out  on  the  staircase  :  Mr.  F.'s  aunt 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  539 

even  then  constantly  reiterating,  with  inexpressible  bitter- 
ness, that  he  was  a  '*  chap,"  and  had  a  "proud  stomach," 
and  over  and  over  again  insisting  on  that  equine  provision 
being  made  for  him  which  she  had  already  so  strongly  pre- 
scribed. 

**  Such  an  inconvenient  staircase  and  so  many  corner- 
stairs  Arthur,"  whispered  Flora,  "would  you  object  to  put- 
ting your  arm  round  me,  under  my  pelerine  ?  " 

With  a  sense  of  going  down-stairs  in  a  highly  ridiculous 
manner,  Clennam  descended  in  the  required  attitude,  and 
only  released  his  fair  burden  at  the  dining-room  door  ;  indeed, 
even  there  she  was  rather  difficult  to  get  rid  of,  remaining 
in  his  embrace  to  murmur,  "  Arthur,  for  mercy's  sake,  don't 
breathe  it  to  papa  ! " 

She  accompanied  Arthur  into  the  room,  where  the  patri- 
arch sat  alone,  with  his  list  shoes  on  the  fender,  twirling  his 
thumbs  as  if  he  had  never  left  off.  The  youthful  patriarch, 
aged  ten,  looked  out  of  his  picture-frame  above  him,  with  no 
calmer  air  than  he.  Both  smooth  heads  were  alike  beaming, 
blundering,  and  bumpy. 

"  Mr.  Clennam,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  are 
well,  sir,  I  hope  you  are  well.  Please  to  sit  down,  please  to 
sit  down." 

"I  had  hoped,  sir,"  said  Clennam,  doing  so,  and  looking 
round  with  a  face  of  blank  disappointment,  "  not  to  find  you 
alone." 

"Ah,  indeed?"  said  the  patriarch,  sweetly.  "Ah, 
indeed  ?  " 

"  I  told  you  so  you  know  papa,"  cried  Flora. 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure  !  "  returned  the  patriarch.  "  Yes,  just  so. 
Ah,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  Pray,  sir,"  demanded  Clennam,  anxiously,  "  is  Miss 
Wade  gone  ?  " 

"Miss ?     Oh,    you    call    her    Wade,"    returned  Mr. 

Casby.     "  Highly  proper." 

Arthur  quickly  returned,  "What  do  you  call  her  ?  " 

"  Wade,"  said  Mr.  Casby.     "  Oh,  always  Wade." 

After  looking  at  the  philanthropic  visage,  and  the  long 
silky  white  hair  for  a  few  seconds^  during  which  Mr.  Casby 
twirled  his  thumbs,  and  smiled  at  the  fire  as  if  he  were 
benevolently  wishing  it  to  burn  him  that  he  might  forgive  it, 
Arthur  began  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Casby " 

"  Not  so,  not  so,"  said  the  patriarch,  "  not  $0." 


540 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


**  — But  Miss  Wade  had  an  attendant  with  her — a  young 
woman  brought  up  by  friends  of  mine,  over  whom  her  influ- 
ence is  not  considered  very  salutary,  and  to  whom  I  should 
be  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  giving  the  assurance 
that  she  had  not  yet  forfeited  the  interest  of  those  pro- 
tectors." 

"  Really,  really  ?  "  returned  the  patriarch. 

*'  Will  you  therefore  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  address 
of  Miss  Wade  ?  " 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  "  said  the  patriarch,  '^  how  very 
unfortunate  !  If  you  had  only  sent  in  to  me  when  they  were 
here  !  I  observed  the  young  woman,  Mr.  Clennani.  A  fine 
full-colored  young  woman,  Mr.  Clennam,  with  very  dark  hair 
and  very  dark  eyes.     If  I  mistake  not,  if  I  mistake  not  ?  " 

Arthur  assented,  and  said  once  more  with  new  expression, 
"  If  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  the  address." 

'^  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  "  exclaimed  the  patriarch  in  sweet 
regret.  ^'  Tut,  tut,  tut  !  what  a  pity,  what  a  pity  !  I  have 
no  address,  sir.  Miss  Wade  mostly  lives  abroad,  Mr.  Clen- 
nam. She  has  done  so  for  some  years,  and  she  is  (if  I  may 
say  so  of  a  fellow-creature  and  a  lady)  fitful  and  uncertain 
to  a  fault,  Mr.  Clennam.  I  may  not  see  her  again  for  a  long, 
long  time.  I  may  never  see  her  again.  What  a  pity,  what  a 
pity  ! " 

Clennam  saw,  now,  that  he  had  as  much  hope  of  getting 
assistance  out  of  the  portrait  as  out  of  the  patriarch  ;  but  he 
said  nevertheless  : 

"  Mr.  Casby,  could  you,  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  friends 
I  have  mentioned,  and  under  any  obligation  of  secrecy  that 
you  may  consider  it  your  duty  to  impose,  give  me  any  infor- 
mation at  all  touching  Miss  Wade  ?  I  have  seen  her  abroad, 
and  I  have  seen  her  at  home,  but  I  know  nothing  of  her. 
Could  you  give  me  any  account  of  her   whatever  ?  " 

"  None,"  returned  the  patriarch,  shaking  his  big  head  with 
his  utmost  benevolence.  ^'  None  at  all.  Dear,  dear,  dear  ! 
What  a  real  pity  that  she  staid  so  short  a  time,  and  you 
delayed  !  As  confidential  agency  business,  agency  business, 
I  have  occasionally  paid  this  lady  money  ;  but  what  satis- 
faction is  it  to  you,  sir,  to  know  that  ?  " 

"  Truly,  none  at  all,"  said  Clennam. 

"  Truly,"  assented  the  patriarch,  with  a  shining  face  as  he 
philanthropically  smiled  at  the  fire,  "  none  at  all,  sir.  You 
hit  the  wise  answer,  Mr.  Clennam.     Truly,  none  at  all,  sir." 

His  turning  of  his  smooth  thumbs  over  one  another  as  he 


LITTLE  DORRlT.  541 

sat  there,  was  so  typical  to  Clennam  of  the  way  in  which  he 
would  make  the  subject  revolve  if  it  were  pursued,  never 
showing  any  new  part  of  it  nor  allowing  it  to  make  the  small- 
est advance,  that  it  did  much  to  help  to  convince  him  of  his 
labor  having  been  in  vain.  He  might  have  taken  any  time 
to  think  about  it,  for  Mr.  Casby,  well  accustomed  to  get  on 
anywhere  by  leaving  every  thing  to  his  bumps  and  his  white 
hair,  knew  his  strength  to  lie  in  silence.  So  there  Casby  sat, 
twirling  and  twirling,  and  making  his  polished  head  and  fore- 
head look  largely  benevolent  in  every  knob. 

With  this  spectacle  before  him,  Arthur  had  risen  to  go, 
when  from  the  inner  dock  where  the  good  ship  Pancks  was 
hove  down  when  out  in  no  cruising  ground,  the  noise  was 
heard  of  that  steamer  laboring  toward  them.  It  struck 
Arthur  that  the  noise  began  demonstratively  far  off,  as 
though  Mr.  Pancks  sought  to  impress  on  any  one  who  might 
happen  to  think  about  it,  that  he  was  working  on  from  out 
of  hearing. 

Mr.  Pancks  and  he  shook  hands,  and  the  former  brought 
his  employer  a  letter  or  two  to  sign.  Mr.  Pancks  in  shaking 
hands  merely  scratched  his  eye-brow  with  his  left  forefinger 
and  snorted  once,  but  Clennam,  who  understood  him  better 
now  than  of  old,  comprehended  that  he  had  almost  done  for 
the  evening  and  wished  to  say  a  word  to  him  outside.  There- 
fore, when  he  had  taken  his  leave  of  Mr.  Casby,  and  (which 
was  a  more  difhcult  process)  of  Flora,  he  sauntered  in  the 
neighborhood  on  Mr.  Pancks's  line  of  road. 

He  had  waited  but  a  short  time  when  Mr.  Pancks  ap- 
peared. Mr.  Pancks  shakes  hands  again  with  another  ex- 
pressive snort,  and  taking  off  his  hat  to  put  his  hair  up, 
Arthur  thought  he  received  his  cue  to  speak  to  him  as  one 
who  knew  pretty  well  what  had  just  now  passed.  Therefore 
he  said,  without  any  preface  : 

*^  I  suppose  they  were  really  gone,  Pancks  ?  " 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Pancks.     "  They  were  really  gone." 

"  Does  he  know  where  to  find  that  lady  ?  " 

"  Can't  say.     I  should  think  so." 

Mr.  Pancks  did  not  ?  No,  Mr.  Pancks  did  not.  Did  Mr. 
Pancks  know  any  thing  about  her  ? 

"  I  expect,"  rejoined  that  worthy,  "  I  know  as  much  about 
her,  as  she  knows  about  herself.  She  is  somebody's  child — 
any  body's — nobody's.  Put  her  in  a  room  in  London  here 
with  any  six  people  old  enough  to  be  her  parents,  and  her 
parents  may  be  there  for  any  thing  she  knows.     They  may 


542  '         LITTLE  DORRIT. 

be  in  any  house  she  sees,  they  may  be  in  any  church-yard 
she  passes,  she  may  run  against  'em  in  any  street,  she  may 
make  chance  acquaintances  of  'em  at  any  time;  and  never 
know  it.  She  knows  nothing  about  'em.  She  knows  noth- 
ing about  any  relative  whatever.     Never  did.     Never  will." 

"  Mr.  Casby  could  enlighten  her,  perhaps  ?  " 

"May  be,"  said  Pancks.  "I  expect  so,  but  don't  know. 
He  has  long  had  money  (not  overmuch  as  I  make  out)  in 
trust  to  dole  out  to  her  when  she  can't  do  without  it. 
Sometimes  she's  proud  and  won't  touch  it  for  a  length  of 
time;  sometimes  she's  so  poor  that  she  must  have  it.  She 
writhes  under  her  life.  A  woman  more  angry,  passionate, 
reckless,  and  revengeful  never  lived.  She  came  for  money 
to-night.     Said  she  had  peculiar  occasion  for  it." 

"  I  think,"  observed  Clennam,  musing,  "  I  by  chance 
know  what  occasion — I  mean  into  whose  pocket  the  money 
is  to  go." 

"  Indeed?"  said  Pancks.  "If  it's  a  compact,  I  recom- 
mend that  party  to  be  exact  in  it.  I  wouldn't  trust  myself 
to  that  woman,  young  and  handsome  as  she  is,  if  I  had 
wronged  her;  no,  not  for  twice  my  proprietor's  money  1 
Unless,"  Pancks  added  as  a  saving  clause,  "  I  had  a  linger- 
ing illness  on  me,  and  wanted  to  get  it  over." 

Arthur,  hurriedly  reviewing  his  own  observation  of  her, 
found  it  to  tally  pretty  nearly  with  Mr.  Pancks's  view. 

"  The  wonder  is  to  me,"  pursued  Pancks,  "  that  she  has 
never  done  for  my  proprietor,  as  the  only  person  connected 
with  her  story  she  can  lay  hold  of.  Mentioning  that,  I  may 
tell  you,  between  ourselves,  that  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to 
do  for  him  myself." 

Arthur  started  and  said,  "  Dear  me,  Pancks,  don't  say 
that !  " 

*^  Understand  me,"  said  Pancks,  extending  five  cropped 
coaly  finger-nails  on  Arthur's  arm;  "  I  don't  mean,  cut  his 
throat.  But  by  all  that's  precious,  if  he  goes  too  far  I'll  cut 
his  hair  !  " 

Having  exhibited  himself  in  the  new  light  of  enunciating 
this  tremendous  threat,  Mr.  Pancks,  with  a  countenance  of 
grave  import,  snorted  several  times  and  steamed  away. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  543 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE   DREAMS   OF   MRS.    FLINTWINCH   THICKEN. 

The  shady  waiting-rooms  of  the  circumlocution  office, 
where  he  passed  a  good  deal  of  time  in  company  with  various 
troublesome  convicts  who  were  under  sentence  to  be  broken 
alive  on  that  wheel,  had  afforded  Arthur  Clennam  ample  lei- 
sure, in  three  or  four  successive  days,  to  exhaust  the  subject 
of  his  late  glimpse  of  Miss  Wade  and  Tattycoram.  He  had 
been  able  to  make  no  more  of  it  and  no  less  of  it,  and  in  this 
unsatisfactory  condition  he  was  fain  to  leave  it. 

During  this  space  he  had  not  been  to  his  mother's  dismal 
old  house.  One  of  his  customary  evenings  for  repairing 
thither  now  coming  round,  he  left  his  dwelling  and  his  part- 
ner at  nearly  nine  o'clock,  and  slowly  walked  in  the  direction 
of  that  grim  home  of  his  youth. 

It^always  affected  his  imagination  as  wrathful,  mysterious, 
and  sad  ;  and  his  imagination  was  sufficiently  impressible  to 
see  the  whole  neighborhood  under  some  dark  tinge  of  its 
dark  shadow.  As  he  went  along,  upon  a  dreary  night,  the 
dim  streets  by  which  he  went,  seemed  all  depositories  of 
oppressive  secrets.  The  deserted  counting-houses,  with 
their  secrets  of  books,  and  papers  locked  up  in  chests  and 
safes  ;  the  banking-houses,  with  their  secrets  of  strong  rooms 
and  wells,  the  keys  of  which  were  in  a  very  few  secret  pock- 
ets and  a  very  few  secret  breasts  ;  the  secrets  of  all  the  dis- 
persed grinders  in  the  vast  mill,  among  whom  there  were 
doubtless  plunderers,  forgers,  and  trust-betrayers  of  many 
sorts,  whom  the  light  of  any  day  that  dawned  might  reveal  ; 
he  could  have  fancied  that  these  things,  in  hiding,  imparted 
a  heaviness  to  the  air.  The  shadow  thickening  and  thicken- 
ing as  he  approached  its  source,  he  thought  of  the  secrets 
of  the  lonely  church-vaults,  where  the  people  who  had 
hoarded  and  secreted  in  iron  coffers  were  in  their  turn 
similarly  hoarded,  not  yet  at  rest  from  doing  harm  ;  and 
then  of  the  secrets  of  the  river,  as  it  rolled  its  turbid  tide 
between  two  frowning  wildernesses  of  secrets,  extending, 
thick  and  dense,  for  many  miles,  and  warding  off  the  free 
air  and  the  free  country  swept  by  winds  and  wings  of  birds. 

The  shadow  still  darkening  as  he  drew  near  the  house,  the 
melancholy  room  which  his  father  had  once  occupied, 
haunted  by  the  appealing  face  he  had  himself  seen  fade 


S44  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

away  with  him  when  there  was  no  other  watcher  by  the  bed, 
arose  before  his  mind.  Its  close  air  was  secret.  The  gloom, 
and  must,  and  dust  of  the  whole  tenement  were  secret.  At 
the  heart  of  it  his  mother  presided,  inflexible  of  face,  indomi- 
table of  will,  firmly  holding  all  the  secrets  of  her  own  and 
his  father's  life,  and  austerely  opposing  herself,  front  to  front, 
to  the  great  final  secret  of  all  life. 

He  had  turned  into  the  narrow  and  steep  street  from 
which  the  court  or  inclosure  wherein  the  house  stood  opened, 
when  another  footstep  turned  into  it  behind  him,  and  so 
close  upon  his  own  that  he  was  jostled  to  the  wall.  As  his 
mind  was  teeming  with  these  thoughts,  the  encounter  took 
him  altogether  unprepared,  so  that  the  other  passenger  had 
had  time  to  say,  boisterously,  "  Pardon  !  Not  my  fault  !  " 
and  to  pass  on  before  the  instant  had  elapsed  which  was 
requisite  to  his  recovery  of  the  realities  about  him. 

When  that  moment  had  flashed  away,  he  saw  that  the  man 
striding  on  before  him  was  the  man  who  had  been  so  much 
in  his  mind  during  the  last  few  days.  It  was  no  casual  resem- 
blance, helped  out  by  the  force  of  the  impression  the  man 
made  upon  him.  It  was  the  man  ;  the  man  he  had  followed 
in  company  with  the  girl,  and  whom  he  had  overheard  talk- 
ing to  Miss  Wade. 

The  street  was  a  sharp  descent  and  was  crooked  too,  and 
the  man  (who  although  not  drunk  had  the  air  of  being 
flushed  with  some  strong  drink)  went  down  it  so  fast  that 
Clennam  lost  him  as  he  looked  at  him.  With  no  defined 
intention  of  following  him,  but  with  an  impulse  to  keep  the 
figure  in  view  a  little  longer,  Clennam  quickened  his  pace  to 
pass  the  twist  in  the  street  which  hid  him  from  his  sight. 
On  turning  it  he  saw  the  man  no  more. 

Standing  now,  close  to  the  gateway  of  his  mother's  house, 
he  looked  down  the  street  ;  but  it  was  empty.  There  was 
no  projecting  shadow  large  enough  to  obscure  the  man  ; 
there  was  no  turning  near  that  he  could  have  taken  ;  nor 
had  there  been  any  audible  sound  of  the  opening  and  clos- 
ing of  a  door.  Nevertheless,  he  concluded  that  the  man 
must  have  had  a  key  in  his  hand,  and  must  have  opened  one 
of  the  many  house-doors  and  gone  in. 

Ruminating  on  this  strange  glimpse,  he  turned  into  the 
court-yard.  As  he  looked,  by  mere  habit,  toward  the  feebly- 
lighted  windows  of  his  mother's  room,  his  eyes  encountered 
the  figure  he  had  just  lost,  standing  against  the  iron  railings 
of  the  little  waste  inclosure  looking  up  at  those  windows 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  545 

and  laughing  to  himself.  Some  of  the  many  vagrant  cats 
who  were  always  prowling  about  there  by  night,  and  who 
had  taken  fright  at  him,  appeared  to  have  stopped  when  he 
had  stopped,  and  were  looking  at  him  with  eyes  by  no 
means  unlike  his  own  from  tops  of  walls  and  porches,  and 
other  safe  points  of  pause.  He  had  only  halted  for  a  mo- 
ment to  entertain  himself  thus  ;  he  immediately  went  forward, 
throwing  the  end  of  his  cloak  off  his  shoulder  as  lie  went, 
ascended  the  unevenly  sunken  steps,  and  knocked  a  sound- 
ing knock  at  the  door. 

Clennam's  surprise  was  not  so  absorbing  but  that  he  took 
his  resolution  without  any  incertitude.  He  went  up  to  the 
door  too,  and  ascended  the  steps^  too.  His  friend  looked  at 
him  with  a  braggart  air,  and  sang  to  himself ; 

**  Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 

Compagnon  de  la  Marjolaine 
Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late? 
Always  gay !  " 

After  which  he  knocked  again. 

"  You  are  impatient,  sir,"  said  Arthur. 

"  I  am,  sir.  Death  of  my  life,  sir,"  returned  the  stranger, 
"  it's  my  character  to  be  impatient  !  " 

The  sound  of  Mistress  Affery  cautiously  chaining  the  door 
before  she  opened  it,  caused  them  both  to  look  that  wa)^ 
Affery  opened  it  a  very  little,  with  a  flaring  candle  in  her 
hands,  and  asked  who  was  that,  at  that  time  of  night,  v/ith 
that  knock  !  "  Why,  Arthur  !  "  she  added,  with  astonish- 
ment, seeing  him  first.  *'  Not  you  sure  !  Ah,  Lord  save  us  ! 
No,"  she  cried  out,  seeing  the  other.     "  Him  again  !  " 

"  It's  true  !  Him  again,  dear  Mrs.  Flintwinch,"  cried  the 
stranger.  "  Open  the  door  and  let  me  take  my  dear  friend 
Jeremiah  to  my  arms  !  Open  the  door,  and  let  me  hasten 
myself  to  embracemy  Flintwinch  !  " 

"  He's  not  at  home,"  said  Affery. 

"  Fetch  him  !  "  cried  the  stranger.  **  Fetch  my  Flint- 
winch !  Tell  him  that  it  is  his  old  Blandois,  who  comes 
from  arriving  in  England  ;  tell  him  that  it  is  his  little  boy- 
who  is  here,  his  cabbage,  his  well-beloved  !  Open  the  door, 
beautiful  Mrs.  Flintwinch,  and  in  the  meantime  let  me 
pass  up  stairs,  to  present  my  compliments — homage  of  Blan- 
dois— to  my  lady  !  My  lady  lives  always  ?  It  is  well.  Open 
then  ! " 

To  Arthur's  increased  surprise.  Mistress  Affery,  stretching 


^46  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

her  eyes  wide  at  himself,  as  if  in  warning  that  this  was  not  a 
gentleman  for  him  to  interfere  with,  drew  back  the  chain,  and 
opened  the  door.  The  stranger,  without  any  ceremony, 
walked  into  the  hall,  leaving  Arthur  to  follow  him. 

"  Dispatch  then  !  Achieve  then  I  Bring  my  Flintwinch  ! 
Announce  me  to  my  lady  !  "  cried  the  stranger,  clanking 
about  the  stone  floor. 

"  Pray  tell  me,  Affery,"  said  Arthur,  aloud  and  sternly,  as 
he  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot  with  indignation,  **who  is 
this  gentleman  ?  " 

"Pray  tell  me,  Affery,"  the  stranger  repeated  in  his  turn, 
**  who — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — who  is  this  gentleman  ?  " 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Clennam  opportunely  called  from  her 
chamber  above,  "  Affery  let  them  both  come  up.  Arthur, 
come  straight  to  me  !  '* 

"Arthur  ?  "  exclaimed  Blandois,  taking  off  his  hat  at  arm's 
length,  and  bringing  his  heels  together  from  a  great  stride  in 
making  him  a  flourishing  bow.  "  The  son  of  my  lady  ?  I  am 
the  all-devoted  of  the  son  of  my  lady  !" 

Arthur  looked  at  him  again  in  no  more  flattering  manner 
than  before,  and,  turning  on  his  heel  without  acknowledg- 
ment, went  up  stairs.  The  visitor  followed  him  up  stairs.. 
Mistress  Affery  took  the  key  from  behind  the  door,  and  deftly 
slipped  out  to  fetch  her  lord. 

A  bystander,  informed  of  the  previous  appearance  of  Mon- 
sieur Blandois  in  that  room,  would  have  observed  a  difference 
in  Mrs.  Clennam's  present  reception  of  him.  Her  face  was 
not  one  to  betray  it  ;  and  her  suppressed  manner,  and  her 
set  voice,  were  equally  under  her  control.  It  wholly  con- 
sisted in  her  never  taking  her  eyes  off  his  face  from  the 
moment  of  his  entrance,  and  in  her  twice  or  thrice,  when 
he  was  becoming  noisy,  swaying  herself  a  little  forward  in 
the  chair  in  which  she  sat  upright,  with  her  hands  immovable 
upon  its  elbows  ;  as  if  she  gave  him  the  assurance  that  he 
should  be  presently  heard  at  any  length  he  would.  Arthur 
did  not  fail  to  observe  this  ;  though  the  difference  between 
the  present  occasion  and  the  former  was  not  within  his  power 
of  observation. 

"  Madame,"  said  Blandois,  "  do  me  the  honor  to  present 
me  to  monsieur,  your  son.  It  appears  to  me,  madame,  that 
monsieur,  your  son,  is  disposed  to  complain  of  me.  He  is 
not  polite." 

"  Sir,"  said  Arthur,  striking  in  expeditiously,  "  whoever 
you  are,  and  however  you  come  to  be  here,  if  I  were  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  547 

master  of  this  house  I  would  lose  no  time  in  placing  you  on 
the  outside  of  it." 

"  But  you  are  not,"  said  his  mother,  without  looking  at  him. 
"  Unfortunately,  for  the  gratification  of  your  unreasonable 
temper,  you  are  not  the  master,  Arthur." 

**  I  make  no  claim  to  be,  mother.  If  I  object  to  this  per- 
son's manner  of  conducting  himself  here,  and  object  to 
it  so  much,  that  if  I  had  any  authority  here  I  certainly 
would  not  suffer  him  to  remain  a  minute,  I  object  on  your 
account." 

''  In  the  case  of  objection  being  necessary,"  she  returned, 
"I  could  object  for  myself.     And  of  course  I  should." 

The  subject  of  their  dispute,  who  had  seated  himself, 
laughed  aloud,  and  rapped  his  legs  with  his  hands. 

''  You  have  no  right,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  always  intent 
on  Blandois,  however  directly  she  addressed  her  son,  ''to 
speak  to  the  prejudice  of  any  gentleman  (least  of  all  a  gen- 
tleman from  another  country),  because  he  does  not  conform 
to  your  standard,  or  square  his  behavior  by  your  rules.  It 
is  possible  that  the  gentleman  may,  on  similar  grounds, 
object  to  you." 

^'  I  hope  so,"  returned  Arthur, 

"  The  gentleman,"  pursued  Mrs.  Clennam,  "  on  a  former 
occasion  brought  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  us  from 
highly  esteemed  and  responsible  correspondents.  I  am 
perfectly  unacquainted  with  the  gentleman's  object  in  com- 
ing here  at  present.  I  am  entirely  ignorant  of  it,  and  can 
not  be  supposed  likely  to  be  able  to  form  the  remotest  guess 
at  its  nature  ;  "  her  habitual  frown  became  stronger,  as  she 
very  slowly  and  weightily  emphasized  those  words;  "but, 
when  the  gentleman  proceeds  to  explain  his  object,  as  I 
shall  beg  him  to  have  the  goodness  to  do  to  myself  and 
Fiintwinch,  when  Flintwinch  returns,  it  will  prove,  no  doubt, 
to  be  one  more  or  less  in  the  usual  way  of  our  business, 
which  it  will  be  both  our  business  and  our  pleasure  to 
advance.     It  can  be  nothing  else." 

"  We  shall  see,  madame  !  "  said  the  man  of  business. 

"  We  shall  see,"  she  assented.  ''  The  gentleman  is 
acquainted  with  Flintwinch;  and  when  the  gentleman  was 
in  London  last,  I  remember  to  have  heard  that  he  and 
Flintwinch  had  some  entertainment  or  good-fellowship 
together.  I  am  not  in  the  way  of  knowing  much  that 
passes  outside  this  room,  and  the  jingle  of  little  worldly 
things  beyond  it  does  not  much  interest  me;  but  I  remem- 
ber to  have  heard  that." 


S48  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*'  Right,  madame.  It  is  true."  He  laughed  again,  and 
whistled  the  burden  of  the  tune  he  had  sung  at  the  door. 

"Therefore,  Arthur,"  said  his  mother,  ''the  gentleman 
comes  here  as  an  acquaintance,  and  no  stranger  ;  and  it  is 
much  to  be  regretted  that  your  unreasonable  temper  should 
have  found  offense  in  him.  I  regret  it.  I  say  so  to  the 
gentleman.  You  will  not  say  so,  I  know  ;  therefore  I  say  it 
for  myself  and  Flintwinch,  since  with  us  two  the  gentleman's 
business  lies." 

The  key  of  the  door  below  was  now  heard  in  the  lock, 
and  the  door  was  heard  to  open  and  close.  In  due  sequence 
Mr.  Flintwinch  appeared;  on  whose  entrance  the  visitor 
rose  from  his  chair,  laughing  aloud,  and  folded  him  in  a 
close  embrace. 

"  How  goes  it,  my  cherished  friend  !  "  said  he.  "  How 
goes  the  world,  my  Flintwinch  ?  Rose-colored  ?  So  much 
the  better,  so  much  the  better  !  Ah,  but  you  look  charm- 
ing !  Ah,  but  you  look  young  and  fresh  as  the  flowers  of 
spring  !     Ah,  good  little  boy  !     Brave  child,  brave  child!  " 

While  heaping  these  compliments  on  Mr.  Flintwinch,  he 
rolled  him  about  with  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders,  until 
the  staggerings  of  that  gentleman,  who  under  the  circum- 
stances was  dryer  and  more  twisted  than  ever,  were  like 
those  of  a  teetotum  nearly  spent. 

"  I  had  a  presentiment,  last  time,  that  we  should  be  better 
and  more  intimately  acquainted.  Is  it  coming  on  you, 
Flintwinch  ?     Is  it  yet  coming  on  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  sir,"  retorted  Mr.  Flintwinch.  "  Not  unusually. 
Hadn't  you  better  be  seated  ?  You  have  been  calling  for 
sofne  more  of  that  port,  sir,  J  guess  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  Little  joker !  Little  pig  ! "  cried  the  visitor. 
"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  "  And  throwing  Mr.  Flintwinch  away 
as  a  closing  piece  of  raillery,  he  sat  down  again. 

The  amazement,  suspicion,  resentment,  and  shame,  with 
which  Arthur  looked  on  at  all  this,  struck  him  dumb.  Mr. 
Flintwinch,  who  had  spun  backward  some  two  or  three 
yards  under  the  impetus  last  given  to  him,  brought  himself 
up  with  a  face  completely  unchanged  in  its  stolidity  except 
*as  it  was  affected  by  shortness  of  breath,  and  looked  hard 
at  Arthur.  Not  a  whit  less  reticent  and  wooden  was  Mr. 
Flintwinch  outwardly,  than  in  the  usual  course  of  things  ; 
the  only  perceptible  difference  in  him  being  that  the  knot  of 
cravat  which  was  generally  under  his  ear,  had  worked  round 
to  the  back  of   his  head  ;  where  it   formed  an   ornamental 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  549 

appendage,  not  unlike  a  bag-wig,  and  gave  him  something  of 
a  courtly  appearance. 

As  Mrs.  Clennam  never  removed  her  eyes  from  Blandois 
(on  whom  they  had  some  effect,  as  a  steady  look  has  on  a 
lower  sort  of  dog),  so  Jeremiah  never  removed  his  from 
Arthur.  It  was  as  if  they  had  tacitly  agreed  to  take  their 
different  provinces.  Thus,  in  the  ensuing  silence,  Jeremiah 
stood  scraping  his  chin  and  looking  at  Arthur  as  though  he 
were  trying  to  screw  his  thoughts  out  of  him  with  an  instru- 
ment. 

After  a  little,  the  visitor,  as  if  he  felt  the  silence  irksome, 
rose,  and  impatiently  put  himself  with  his  back  to  the  sacred 
fire  which  had  burned  through  so  many  years.  Thereupon 
Mrs.  Clennam  said,  moving  one  of  her  hands  for  the  first 
time,  and  moving  it  very  slightly  with  an  action  of  dismissal: 

^*  Please  to  leave  us  to  our  business,  Arthur." 

"  Mother,  I  do  so  with  reluctance." 

"  Never  mind  with  what,"  she  returned,  "or  with  what 
not.  Please  to  leave  us.  '  Come  back  at  any  other  time 
when  you  may  consider  it  a  duty  to  bury  half  an  hour  wearily 
here.     Good-night." 

She  held  up  her  mufiled  fingers  that  he  might  touch  them 
with  his,  according  to  their  usual  custom,  and  he  stood  over 
her  wheeled-chair  to  touch  her  face  with  his  lips.  He 
thought,  then,  that  her  cheek  was  more  strained  than  usual, 
and  that  it  was  colder.  As  he  followed  the  direction  of  her 
eyes,  in  rising  again,  toward  Mr.  Flintwinch's  good  friend, 
Mr.  Blandois,  Mr.  Blandois  snapped  his  finger  and  thumb 
with  one  loud  contemptuous  snap. 

*^  I  leave  your — your  business  acquaintance  in  my  mother's 
room,  Mr.  Flintwinch,"  said  Clennam,  'Svith  a  great  deal  of 
surprise  and  a  great  deal  of  unwillingness." 

The  person  referred  to  snapped  his  finger  and  thumb 
again. 

"  Good-night,  mother." 

"  Good-night." 

**  I  had  a  good  friend  once,  my  good  comrade  Flint- 
winch,"  said  Blandois,  standing  aside  before  the  fire,  and  so 
evidently  saying  it  to  arrest  Clennam's  retreating  steps,  that 
he  lingered  near  the  door  ;  "  I  had  a  friend  once,  'who  had 
heard  so  much  of  the  dark  side  of  this  city  and  its  ways, 
that  he  wouldn't  have  confided  himself  alone  by  night  with 
two  people  who  had  an  interest  in  getting  him  under  the 
ground — my  faith  !  not  even  in  a  respectable  house  like  this 


5SO  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

— unltos  he  was  bodily  too  strong  for  them.  Bah  !  What 
a  poltroon,  my  Mr.  Flintwinch  !     Eh  ?  " 

"A  cur,  sir." 

"Agreed!  A  cur.  But  he  wouldn't  have  done  it,  my 
Flintwinch,  unless  he  had  known  them  to  have  the  will  to 
silence  him  without  the  power.  He  wouldn't  have  drunk 
from  a  glass  of  water,  under  such  circumstances — not  even 
in  a  respectable  house  like  this,  my  Flintwinch — unless  he 
had  seen  some  of  them  drink  first,  and  swallow  too  !  " 

Disdaining  to  speak,  and  indeed  not  very  well  able,  for 
he  was  half-choking,  Clennam  only  glanced  at  the  visitor  as 
he  passed  out.  The  visitor  saluted  him  with  another  parting 
snap,  and  his  nose  came  down  over  his  mustache  and  his 
mustache  went  up  under  his  nose,  in  an  ominous  and  ugly 
smile. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Affery,"  whispered  Clennam,  as  she 
opened  the  door  for  him  in  the  dark  hall,  and  he  groped  his 
way  to  the  sight  of  the  night-sky,  "  what  is  going  on  here  ?  '* 

Her  own  appearance  was  sufficiently  ghastly,  standing  in 
the  dark  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  head,  and  speaking 
behind  it  in  a  low,  deadened  voice. 

"  Don't  ask  me  any  thing,  Arthur.  I've  been  in  a  dream 
for  ever  so  long.     Go  away  !  " 

He  went  out,  and  she  shut  the  door  behind  him.  He 
looked  up  at  the  windows  of  his  mother's  room,  and  the  dim 
light,  deadened  by  the  yellow  blinds,  seemed  to  say  a  re- 
sponse after  Affery,  and  to  mutter  "  Don't  ask  me  any  thing. 
Go  away  ! " 


CHAPTER  XL 

A   LETTER   FROM    LITTLE   DORRIT. 

Dear  Mr.  Clennam, 

As  I  said  in  my  last  that  it  was  best  for  nobody  to  write 
to  me,  and  as  my  sending  you  another  little  letter  can  there- 
fore give  you  no  other  trouble  than  the  trouble  of  reading  it 
(perhaps  you  may  not  find  leisure  for  even  that,  though  I 
hope  you  will  some  day),  I  am  now  going  to  devote  an  hour 
to  writing  to  you  again.     This  time,  I  write  from  Rome. 

We  left  Venice  before  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gowan  did,  but  they 
were  not  so  long  upon  the  road  as  we  were,  and  did  not 
travel  by  the  same  way,  and  so  when  we  arrived  we  found 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  551 

them  in  a  lodging  here,  in  a  place  called  the  Via  Gregori- 
ana.     I  dare  say  you  know  it. 

Now,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all  I  can  about  them,  because 
I  know  that  is  what  you  most  want  to  hear.  Theirs  is  not  a 
very  comfortable  lodging,  but  perhaps  I  thought  it  less  so 
when  I  first  saw  it  than  you  would  have  done,  because  you 
have  been  in  many  countries  and  have  seen  many 
different  customs.  Of  course  it  is  a  far,  far  better  place 
— millions  of  times — than  any  I  have  ever  been  used  to 
until  lately  ;  and  I  fancy  I  don't  look  at  it  with  my  own  eyes, 
but  with  hers.  For  it  would  be  easy  to  see  that  she  has  al- 
ways been  brought  up  in  a  tender  and  happy  home,  even  if 
she  had  not  told  me  so  with  great  love  for  it. 

Well,  it  is  a  rather  bare  lodging  up  a  rather  dark  common 
staircase,  and  it  is  nearly  all  a  large  dull  room,  where  Mr. 
Gowan  paints.  The  windows  are  blocked  up  where  any  one 
could  look  out,  and  the  walls  have  been  all  drawn  over  with 
chalk  and  charcoal  by  others  who  have  lived  there  before — 
oh — I  should  think,  for  years  !  There  is  a  curtain  more 
dust-colored  than  red,  which  divides  it,  and  the  part  behind 
the  curtain  makes  the  private  sitting-room.  When  I  first 
saw  her  there  she  was  alone,  and  her  work  had  fallen  out  of 
her  hand,  and  she  was  looking  up  at  the  sky  shining  through 
the  tops  of  the  windows.  Pray  do  not  be  uneasy  when  I  tell 
you,  but  it  was  not  quite  so  airy,  nor  so  bright,  nor  so  cheer- 
ful, nor  so  happy  and  youthful  altogether  as  I  should  have 
liked  it  to  be. 

On  account  of  Mr.  Gowan  painting  papa's  picture  (which 
I  am  not  quite  convinced  I  should  have  known  from  the 
likeness  if  I  had  not  seen  him  doing  it),  I  have  had  more 
opportunities  of  being  with  her  since  then,  than  I  might  have 
had  without  this  fortunate  chance.  She  is  very  much  alone. 
Very  much  alone  indeed. 

Shall  I  tell  you  about  the  second  time  I  saw  her  ?  I  went 
one  day,  when  it  happened  that  I  could  run  round  by  my- 
self, at  four  or  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  She  was  then 
dining  alone,  and  her  solitary  dinner  had  been  brought  in 
from  somewhere,  over  a  kind  of  brazier  with  a  fire  in  it,  and 
she  had  no  company  or  prospect  of  company,  that  I  could 
see,  but  the  old  man  who  had  brought  it.  He  was  telling 
her  a  long  story  (of  robbers  outside  the  walls,  being  taken 
up  by  a  stone  statue  of  a  saint),  to  entertain  her — as  he  said 
to  me, when  I  came  out,  ^'  because  he  had  a  daughter  of  his 
own,  though  she  was  not  so  pretty." 


552  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

I  ought  now  to  mention  Mr.  Gowan,  before  I  say  what 
little  more  I  have  to  say  about  her.  He  must  admire  her 
beauty,  and  he  must  be  proud  of  her,  for  every  body  praises 
it,  and  he  must  be  fond  of  her,  and  I  do  not  doubt  that  he  is 
— but  in  his  way.  You  know  his  way,  and  if  it  appears  as 
careless  and  discontented  in  your  eyes,  as  it  does  in  mine, 
I  am  not  wrong  in  thinking  that  it  might  be  better  suited  to 
her.  If  it  does  not  seem  so  to  you,  I  am  quite  sure  I  am 
wholly  mistaken;  for  your  unchanged  poor  child  con- 
fides in  your  knowledge  and  goodness  more  than  she 
.could  ever  tell  you,  if  she  was  to  try.  But  don't  be 
frightened,  I  am  not  going  to  try. 

Owing  (as  I  think,  if  you  think  so  too)  to  Mr.  Gowan's 
unsettled  and  dissatisfied  way,  he  applies  himself  to  his  pro- 
fession very  little.  He  does  nothing  steadily  or  patiently; 
but  equally  takes  things  up  and  throws  them  down,  and  does 
them,  or  leaves  them  undone,  without  caring  about  them. 
When  I  have  heard  him  talking  to  papa  during  the  sittings 
for  the  picture,  I  have  sat  wondering  whether  it  could  be 
that  he  has  no  belief  in  any  body  else,  because  he  has  no 
belief  in  himself.  Is  it  so  ?  I  wonder  what  you  will  say 
when  you  come  to  this  !  I  know  how  you  will  look,  and  I 
can  almost  hear  the  voice  in  which  you  would  tell  me  on  the  • 
Iron  Bridge. 

Mr.  Gowan  goes  out  a  good  deal  among  what  is  consid- 
ered the  best  company  here — though  he  does  not  look  as  if 
he  enjoyed  it  or  liked  it  when  he  is  with  it — and  she  some- 
times accompanies  him,  but  lately  she  has  gone  out  very 
little.  I  think  I  have  noticed  that  they  have  an  inconsistent 
way  of  speaking  about  her,  as  if  she  had  made  some  great 
self-interested  success  in  marrying  Mr.  Gowan,  though,  at 
the  same  time,  the  very  same  people  would  not  have  dreamed 
of  taking  him  for  themselves  or  their  daughters.  Then  he 
goes  into  the  country  besides,  to  think  about  making  sketches; 
and  in  all  places  where  there  are  visitors,  he  has  a  large 
acquaintance  and  is  very  well  known.  Besides  all  this,  he 
has  a  friend  who  is  much  in  his  society  both  at  home  and 
away  from  home,  though  he  treats  his  friend  very  coolly  and 
is  very  uncertain  in  his  behavior  to  him.  I  am  quite  sure 
(because  she  has  told  me  so),  that  she  does  not  like  this 
friend.  He  is  so  revolting  to  me,  too,  that  his  being  away 
from  here,  at  present,  is  quite  a  relief  to  my  mind.  How 
much  more  to  hers  ! 

But  what  I  particularly  want  you  to  know,  and  why  I  have 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  553 

resolved  to  tell  you  so  much  even  while  I  am  afraid  it  may 
make  you  a  little  uncomfortable  without  occasion,  is  this. 
She  is  so  true  and  so  devoted,  and  knows  so  completely 
that  all  her  love  and  duty  are  his  forever,  that  you  may  be 
certain  she  will  love  him,  admire  him,  praise  him,  and  con- 
ceal all  his  faults,  until  she  dies.  I  believe  she  conceals 
them,  and  always  will  conceal  them,  even  from  herself.  She 
has  given  him  a  heart  that  can  never  be  taken  back;  and 
however  much  he  may  try  it,  he  will  never  wear  out  its 
affection.  You  know  the  truth  of  this,  as  you  know  every 
thing,  far,  far  better  than  I;  but  I  can  not  help  telling  you 
what  a  nature  she  shows,  and  that  you  can  never  think  too 
well  of  her. 

I  have  not  yet  called  her  by  her  name  in  this  letter,  but 
we  are  such  friends  now  that  I  do  so  when  we  are  quietly  to- 
gether, and  she  speaks  to  me  by  my  name — I  mean,  not  my 
Christian  name,  but  the  name  you  gave  me.  When  she  began 
to  call  me  Amy,  I  told  her  my  short  story,  and  that  you  had 
always  called  me  Little  Dorrit.  I  told  her  that  the  name  was 
much  dearer  to  me  than  any  other,  and  so  she  calls  me  Little 
Dorrit  too. 

Perhaps  you  have  not  heard  from  her  father  or  mother  yet, 
and  may  not  know  that  she  has  a  baby  son.  He  was  born 
only  two  days  ago,  and  just  a  week  after  they  came.  It  has 
made  them  very  happy.  However,  I  must  tell  you,  as  I  am 
to  tell  you  all,  that  I  fancy  they  are  under  a  constraint  with 
Mr.  Gowan,  and  that  they  feel  as  if  his  mocking  way  with 
them  was  sometimes  a  slight  given  to  their  love  for  her.  It 
was  but  yesterday  when  I  was  there,  that  I  saw  Mr.  Meagles 
change  color,  and  get  up  and  go  out,  as  if  he  was  afraid  that 
he  might  say  so,  unless  he  prevented  himself  by  that  means. 
Yet  I  am  sure  that  they  are  both  so  considerate,  good- 
humored,  and  reasonable,  that  he  might  spare  them.  It  is 
hard  in  him  not  to  think  of  them  a  little  more. 

I  stopped  at  the  last  full  stop  to  read  all  this  over.  It 
looked  at  first  as  if  I  was  taking  on  myself  to  understand  and 
explain  so  much,  that  I  was  half  inclined  not  to  send  it. 
But  when  I  had  thought  it  over  a  little,  I  felt  more  hopeful 
of  your  knowing  at  once  that  I  had  only  been  watchful  for 
you,  and  had  only  noticed  what  I  think  I  have  noticed, 
because  I  was  quickened  by  your  interest  in  it.  Indeed,  you 
may  be  sure  that  is  the  truth. 

And  now  I  have  done  with  the  subject  in  the  present  letter^ 
and  have  little  left  to  say. 


554  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

We  are  all  quite  well,  and  Fanny  improves  every  day. 
You  can  hardly  think  how  kind  she  is  to  me,  and  what  pains 
she  takes  with  me.  She  has  a  lover,  who  has  followed  her, 
first  all  the  way  from  Switzerland,  and  then  all  the  way  from 
Venice,  and  who  has  just  confided  to  me  that  he  means  to 
follow  her  everywhere.  I  was  much  confused  by  his  speaking 
to  me  about  it,  but  he  would.  I  did  not  know  what  to  say, 
but  at  last  I  told  him  that  I  thought  he  had  better  not.  For 
Fanny  (but  I  did  not  tell  him  this)  is  much  too  spirited  and 
clever  to  suit  him.  Still,  he  said  he  would,  all  the  same.  I 
have  no  lover,  of  course. 

If  you  should  ever  get  so  far  as  this  in  this  long  letter,  you 
will  perhaps  say,  surely  Little  Dorrit  will  not  leave  off  without 
telling  me  something  about  her  travels,  and  surely  it  is  time 
she  did.  I  think  it  is  indeed,  but  I  don't  know  what  to  tell 
you.  Since  we  left  Venice  we  have  been  in  a  great  many 
wonderful  places,  Genoa  and  Florence  among  them,  and  have 
seen  so  many  wonderful  sights,  that  I  am  almost  giddy  when 
I  think  what  a  crowd  they  make.  But  you  could  tell  me  so 
much  more  about  them  than  I  can  tell  you,  that  why  should 
I  tire  you  with  my  accounts  and  descriptions  ? 

Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  as  I  had  the  courage  to  tell  you  what 
the  familiar  difficulties  in  my  traveling  mind  were  before,  I 
will  not  be  a  coward  now.  One  of  my  frequent  thoughts  is 
this  : — Old  as  these  cities  are,  their  age  itself  is  hardly  so 
curious,  to  my  reflections,  as  that  they  should  have  been  in 
their  places  all  through  those  days  when  I  did  not  even  know 
of  the  existence  of  more  than  two  or  three  of  them,  and  when 
I  scarcely  knew  of  any  thing  outside  our  old  walls.  There 
is  something  melancholy  in  it,  and  I  don't  know  why.  When 
we  went  to  see  the  famous  leaning  tower  at  Pisa,  it  was  a 
bright  sunny  day,  and  it  and  the  buildings  near  it  looked  so 
old,  and  the  earth  and  sky  looked  so  young,  and  its  shadow 
on  the  ground  was  so  soft  and  retired  !  I  could  not  at  first 
think  how  beautiful  it  was,  or  how  curious,  but  I  thought 
"  Oh,  how  many  times  when  the  shadow  of  the  wall  was 
falling  on  our  room,  and  when  that  weary  tread  of  feet  was 
going  up  and  down  the  yard — oh,  how  many  times  this  place 
was  just  as  quiet  and  lovely  as  it  is  to-day  !  "  It  quite  over- 
powered me.  My  heart  was  so  full,  that  tears  burst  out  of 
my  eyes,  though  I  did  what  I  could  to  restrain  them.  And 
I  have  the  same  feeling  often — often. 

Do  you  know  that  since  the  change  in  our  fortunes, 
though  I  appear  to  myself  to  have  dreamed  more  than  before, 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  555 

I  have  always  dreamed  of  myself  as  very  young  indeed  !  I 
am  not  very  old,  you  may  say.  No,  but  that  is  not  what  I 
mean.  I  have  always  dreamed  of  myself  as  a  child  learning 
to  do  needle-work.  I  have  often  dreamed  of  myself  as  back 
there,  seeing  faces  in  the  yard  little  known,  and  which  I 
should  have  thought  I  had  quite  forgotten  ;  but,  as  often  as 
not,  I  have  been  abroad  here — in  Switzerland  or  France  or 
Italy — somewhere  where  we  have  been — yet  always  as  that 
little  child.  I  have  dreamed  of  going  down  to  Mrs.  General, 
with  the  patches  on  my  clothes  in  which  I  can  first  remember 
myself.  I  have  over  and  over  again  dreamed  of  taking  my 
place  at  dinner  at  Venice  when  we  have  had  a  large  company, 
in  the  mourning  for  my  poor  mother  which  I  wore  when  I  . 
was  eight  years  old,  and  wore  long  after  it  was  threadbare 
and  would  mend  no  more.  It  has  been  a  great  distress  to 
me  to  think  how  irreconcilable  the  company  would  consider 
it  with  my  father's  wealth,  and  how  I  should  displease  and 
disgrace  him  and  Fanny  and  Edward  by  so  plainly  disclos- 
ing what  they  wished  to  keep  secret.  But  I  have  not  grown 
out  of  the  little  child  in  thinking  of  it  ;  and  at  the  self-same 
moment  I  have  dreamed  that  I  have  sat  with  the  heart-ache 
at  table,  calculating  the  expenses  of  the  dinner,  and  quite 
distracting  myself  with  thinking  how  they  were  ever  to  be 
made  good.  I  have  never  dreamed  of  the  change  in  our 
fortunes  itself  ;  I  have  never  dreamed  of  your  coming  back 
with  me  that  memorable  morning  to  break  it  ;  I  have  never 
even  dreamed  of  you. 

Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  it  is  possible  that  I  have  thought  of 
you — and  others — so  much  by  day,  that  I  have  no  thoughts 
left  to  wander  round  you  by  night.  For  I  mustnov»^  confess 
to  you  that  I  suffer  from  homesickness — that  I  long  so 
ardently  and  earnestly  for  hoine,  as  sometimes,  when  no  one 
sees  me,  to  pine  for  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  turn  my  face 
further  from  it.  My  heart  is  a  little  lightened  when  we  turn 
toward  it,  even  for  a  few  miles,  and  with  the  knowledge  that 
we  are  soon  to  turn  away  again.  So  dearly  do  I  love  the 
scene  of  my  poverty  and  your  kindness.  Oh  so  dearly,  oh 
so  dearly  ! 

Heaven  knows  when  your  poor  child  will  see  England 
again.  We  are  all  fond  of  the  life  here  (except  me),  and 
there  are  no  plans  for  our  return.  My  dear  father  talks  of 
a  visit  to  London  late  in  this  next  spring,  on  some  affairs  con- 
nected with  the  property,  but  I  have  no  hope  that  he  will 
bring  me  with  him. 


556  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

I  have  tried  to  get  on  a  little  better  under  Mrs.  General's 
instruction,  and  I  hope  I  am  not  quite  so  dull  as  I  used  to 
be.  I  have  begun  to  speak  and  understand,  almost  easily, 
the  hard  languages  I  told  you  about.  I  did  not  remember 
at  the  moment  when  I  wrote  last,  that  you  knew  them  both  ; 
but  I  remembered  it  afterward,  and  it  helped  me  on.  God 
bless  you,  dear  Mr.  Clennam.     Do  not  forget 

Your  ever  grateful  and  affectionate 

Little  Dorrit. 

P.  S. — Particularly  remember  that  Minnie  Gowan  deserves 
the  best  remembrance  in  which  you  can  hold  her.  You  can 
not  think  too  generously  or  too  highly  of  her.  I  forgot 
Mr.  Pancks  last  time.  Please,  if  you  should  see  him,  give 
him  your  Little  Dorrit's  kind  regard.  He  was  very  good  to 
Little  D. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

IN  WHICH  A  GREAT  PATRIOTIC  CONFERENCE  IS  HOLDEN, 

The  famous  name  of  Merdle  became,  every  day,  more 
famous  in  the  land.  Nobody  knew  that  the  Merdle  of  such 
high  renown  had  ever  done  any  good  to  any  one,  alive  or 
dead,  or  to  any  earthly  thing  ;  nobody  knew  that  he  had 
any  capacity  or  utterance  of  any  sort  in  him,  which  had 
ever  thrown,  for  any  creature,  the  feeblest  farthing-candle 
ray  of  light  on  any  path  of  duty  or  diversion,  pain  or  pleas- 
ure, toil  or  rest,  fact  or  fancy,  among  the  multiplicity  of 
paths  in  the  labyrinth  trodden  by  the  sons  of  Adam;  nobody 
had  the  smallest  reason  for  supposing  the  clay  of  which  this 
object  of  worship  was  made,  to  be  other  than  the  commonest 
clay,  with  as  clogged  a  wick  smoldering  inside  of  it  as  ever 
kept  an  image  of  humanity  from  tumbling  to  pieces.  All 
people  knew  (or  thought  they  knew)  that  he  had  made  him- 
self immensely  rich  ;  and,  for  that  reason  alone,  prostrated 
themselves  before  him,  more  degradedly  and  less  excusably 
than  the  darkest  savage  creeps  out  of  his  hole  in  the  ground 
to  propitiate,  in  some  log  or  reptile,  the  Deity  of  his  benighted 
soul. 

Nay,  the  high  priests  of  the  worship  had  the  man  before 
them  as  a  protest  against  their  meanness.  The  multitude 
worshiped  on  trust — though  always  distinctly  knowing  why 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  557 

— but  the  officiators  at  the  ahar  had  the  man  habitually  in 
their  view.  They  sat  at  his  feasts,  and  he  sat  at  theirs. 
There  was  a  specter  always  attendant  on  him,  saying  to  these 
high  priests,  '*  Are  such  the  signs  you  trust,  and  love  to  honor; 
this  head,  these  eyes,  this  mode  of  speech,  the  tone  and  man- 
ner of  this  man  ?  You  are  the  levers  of  the  circumlocution 
office,  and  the  rulers  of  men.  When  half-a-dozen  of  you  fall 
out  by  the  ears,  it  seems  that  mother  earth  can  give  birth  to 
no  other  rulers.  Does  your  qualification  lie  in  the  superior 
knowledge  of  men,  which  accepts  courts,  and  puffs  this  man? 
Or,  if  you  are  competent  to  judge  aright  the  signs  I  never 
fail  to  show  you  when  he  appears  among  you,  is  your  superior 
honesty  your  qualification  ?  "  Two  rather  ugly  questions 
these,  always  going  about  town  with  Mr.  Merdle  ;  and  there 
was  a  tacit  agreement  that  they  must  be  stifled. 

In  Mrs.  Merdle's  absence  abroad,  Mr.  Merdle  still  kept  the 
great  house  open,  for  the  passage  through  it  of  a  stream  of 
visitors.  A  few  of  these  took  affable  possession  of  the  estab- 
lishment. Three  or  four  ladies  of  distinction  and  liveliness 
used  to  say  to  one  another,  "  Let  us  dine  at  our  dear  Mer- 
dle's  next  Thursday.  Whom  shall  we  have  ? "  Our  dear 
Merdle  would  then  receive  his  instructions  ;  and  would  sit 
heavily  among  the  company  at  table  and  wander  lumpishly 
about  his  drawing-room  afterward,  only  remarkable  for 
appearing  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  entertainment 
beyond  being  in  its  way. 

The  chief  butler,  the  avenging  spirit  of  this  great  man's 
life,  relaxed  nothing  of  his  severity.  He  looked  on  at  these 
dinners  when  the  bosom  was  not  there,  as  he  looked  on  at 
other  dinners  when  the  bosom  was  there  ;  and  his  eye  was  a 
basilisk  to  Mr.  Merdle.  He  was=  a  hard  man,  and  would 
never  bate  an  ounce  of  plate  or  a  bottle  of  wine.  He  would 
not  allow  a  dinner  to  be  given,  unless  it  was  up  to  his  mark. 
He  set  forth  the  table  for  his  own  dignity.  If  the  guests 
chose  to  partake  of  what  was  served,  he  saw  no  objection  ; 
but  it  was  served  for  the  maintenance  of  his  rank.  As  he 
stood  by  the  sideboard  he  seemed  to  announce,  "  I  have 
accepted  office  to  look  at  this  which  is  now  before  me,  and 
to  look  at  nothing  less  than  this."  If  he  missed  the  presid- 
ing bosom,  it  was  a  part  of  his  own  state  of  which  he  was, 
from  unavoidable  circumstances,  temporarily  deprived. 
Just  as  he  might  have  missed  a  center-piece,  or  a  choice 
wine-cooler,  which  had  been  sent  to  the  banker's. 

Mr.   Merdle   issued   invitations   for  a   Barnacle   dinner. 


558  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Lord  Decimus  was  to  be  there,  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  was  to  be 
there,  the  pleasant  young  Barnacle  was  to  be  there  ;  and  the 
chorus  of  parliamentary  Barnacles  who  went  about  the  prov- 
inces when  the  house  was  up,  warbling  the  praises  of  their 
chief,  were  to  be  represented  there.  It  was  understood  to 
be  a  great  occasion.  Mr.  Merdle  was  going  to  take  up  the 
Barnacles.  Some  delicate  little  negotiations  had  occurred 
between  him  and  the  noble  Decimus — the  young  Barnacle 
of  engaging  manners  acting  as  negotiator — and  Mr.  Merdle 
had  decided  to  cast  the  weight  of  his  great  probity  and 
great  riches  into  the  Barnacle  scale.  Jobbery  was  sus- 
pected by  the  malicious  ;  perhaps  because  it  was  indisputa- 
l3le  that  if  the  adherence  of  the  immortal  enemy  of  mankind 
could  have  been  secured  by  a  job,  the  Barnacles  would 
have  jobbed  him — for  the  good  of  the  country,  for  the  good 
of  the  country. 

Mrs.  Merdle  had  written  to  this  magnificent  spouse  of 
hers,  whom  it  was  heresy  to  regard  as  any  thing  less  than 
all  the  British  merchants  since  the  days  of  Whittington 
rolled  into  one,  and  gilded  three  feet  deep  all  over — had 
written  to  this  spouse  of  hers,  several  letters  from  Rome, 
in  quick  succession,  urging  upon  him  with  importunity  that 
now  or  never  was  the  time  to  provide  for  Edmund  Spark- 
ler. Mrs.  Merdle  had  shown  him  that  the  case  of  Edmund 
was  urgent,  and  that  infinite  advantages  might  result  from 
his  having  some  good  thing  directly.  In  the  grammar  of 
Mrs.  Merdle's  verbs  on  this  momentous  subject,  there  was 
only  one  mood,  the  imperative  ;  and  that  mood  had  only  one 
tense,  the  present.  Mrs.  Merdle's  verbs  were  so  pressingly 
presented  to  Mr.  Merdle  to  conjugate,  that  his  sluggish 
blood  and  his  long  coat  cuffs  became  quite  agitated. 

In  which  state  of  agitation,  Mr.  Merdle,  evasively  rolling 
his  eyes  round  the  chief  butler's  shoes  without  raising  them  to 
the  index  of  that  stupendous  creature's  thoughts,  had  signi- 
fied to  him  his  intention  of  giving  a  special  dinner ;  not  a 
very  large  dinner,  but  a  very  special  dinner.  The  chief 
butler  had  signified,  in  return,  that  he  had  no  objection  to 
look  on  at  the  most  expensive  thing  in  that  way  that  could 
be  done  :  and  the  day  of  the  dinner  was  now  come. 

Mr.  Merdle  stood  in  one  of  his  drawing-rooms,  with  his 
back  to  the  fire,  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  his  important 
guests.  He  seldom  or  never  took  the  liberty  of  standing 
with  his  back  to  his  fire,  unless  he  was  quite  alone.  In  the 
presence  of  the  chief  butler,  he  could  not  have  done  such 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  559 

a  deed.  He  would  have  clasped  himself  by  tlirj  \rnsu,  m 
that  constabulary  manner  of  his,  and  have  paced  up  and 
down  the  hearthrug,  or  gone  creeping  about  among  the  rich 
objects  of  furniture,  if  his  oppressive  retainer  had  appeared 
in  the  room  at  that  very  moment.  The  sly  shadows  which 
seemed  to  dart  out  of  hiding  when  the  fire  rose,  and  to 
dart  back  into  it  when  the  fire  fell,  where  sufficient  wit- 
nesses of  his  making  himself  so  easy.  They  were  even 
more  than  sufficient,  if  his  uncomfortable  glances  at  them 
might  be  taken  to  mean  any  thing. 

Mr.  Merdle's  right  hand  was  filled  with  the  evening  paper, 
and  the  evening  paper  was  full  of  Mr.  Merdle.  His  wonder- 
ful enterprise,  his  wonderful  wealth,  his  wonderful  bank, 
were  the  fattening  food  of  the  evening  paper  that  night.  The 
wonderful  bank,  of  which  he  was  the  .chief  projector, 
establisher,  and  manager,  was  the  latest  of  the  many  Merdle 
wonders.  So  modest  was  Mr.  Merdle  withal,  in  the  midst 
of  these  splendid  achievements,  that  he  looked  far  more  like 
a  man  in  possession  of  his  house  under  a  distraint,  than  a 
commercial  colossus  bestriding  his  own  hearth-rug,  while  the 
little  ships  were  sailing  in  to  dinner. 

Behold  the  vessels  coming  into  port  !  The  engaging 
young  Barnacle  was  the  first  arrival  ;  but  Bar  overtook  him 
on  the  staircase.  Bar,  strengthened  as  usual  with  his  double 
eye-glass,  and  his  little  jury  droop,  was  overjoyed  to  see  the 
engaging  young  Barnacle  ;  and  opined  that  we  were  going  to 
sit  in  banco,  as  we  lawyers  call  it,  to  take  a  special  argu- 
ment ? 

"  Indeed,*'  said  the  sprightly  young  Barnacle,  whose  name 
was  Ferdinand  :  "  how  so  ?  " 

*^  Nay,"  smiled  Bar.  "  If  you  don't  know,  how  can  7 
know  ?  You  are  in  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  the  tem- 
ple ;  /  am  one  of  the  admiring  concourse  on  the  plain  with- 
out." 

Bar  could  be  light  in  hand,  or  heavy  in  hand,  according 
to  the  customer  he  had  to  deal  with.  With  Ferdinand 
Barnacle  he  was  gossamer.  Bar  was  likewise  always  modest 
and  self-depreciatory — in  his  way.  Bar  was  a  man  of  great 
variety  ;  but  one  leading  thread  ran  through  the  woof  of  all 
his  patterns.  Every  man  with  whom  he  had  to  do  was  in 
his  eyes,  a  juryman  ;  and  he  must  get  that  juryman  over,  if 
he  could. 

"  Our  illustrious  host  and  friend,"  said  Bar  ;  "  our  shining 
mercantile  star  ; — going  into  politics  ?  " 


56o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*^  Going  ?  He  has  been  in  parliament  some  time,  you 
know/'  returned  the  engaging  young  Barnacle. 

^^  True,"  said  Bar,  with  his  light-comedy  laugh  for  special 
jurymen  :  which  was  a  very  different  thing  from  his  low- 
comedy  laugh  for  comic  tradesmen  or  common  juries  :  "  he 
has  been  in  parliament  for  some  time.  Yet  hitherto  our  star 
has  been  a  vacillating  and  wavering  star  ?     Humph  ?  " 

An  average  witness  would  have  been  seduced  by  the 
humph  ?  into  an  affirmative  answer.  But  Ferdinand  Bar- 
nacle looked  knowingly  at  Bar  as  they  strolled  up  stairs,  and 
gave  him  no  answer  at  all. 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  said  Bar,  nodding  his  head,  for  he  was 
not  to  be  put  off  in  that  way,  *'  and  therefore  I  spoke  of 
our  sitting  in  banco  to  take  a  special  argument — meaning 
this  to  be  a  high,  and  solemn  occasion,  when,  as  Captain 
Macheath  says,  *  The  judges  are  met  :  a  terrible  show  !  * 
We  lawyers  are  sufficiently  liberal,  you  see,  to  quote  the  cap- 
tain, though  the  captain  is  severe  upon  us.  Nevertheless,  I 
think  I  could  put  in  evidence  an  admission  of  the  captain's," 
said  Bar,  with  a  little  jocose  roll  of  his  head  ;  for,  in  his  legal 
current  of  speech,  he  always  assumed  the  air  of  rallying  him- 
self with  the  best  grace  in  the  world  ;  ^'  an  admission  of  the 
captain's  that  law,  in  the  gross,  is  at  least  intended  to  be 
impartial.  For,  what  says  the  captain,  if  I  quote  him  cor- 
rectly— and  if  not,"  with  a  light-comedy  touch  of  his  double 
eye-glass  on  his  companion's  shoulder,  "  my  learned  friend 
will  set  me  right : 

*  Since  laws  were  made  for  every  degree, 
To  curb  vice  in  others  as  well  as  in  me, 
I  wonder  we  ha'n't  better  company 
Upon  Tyburn  Tree  !  '  " 

These  words  brought  them  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
Mr.  Merdle  stood  before  the  fire.  So  immensely  astounded 
was  Mr.  Merdle  by  the  entrance  of  Bar  with  such  a  reference 
in  his  mouth,  that  Bar  explained  himself  to  have  been  quot- 
ing Gay.  "  Assuredly  not  one  of  our  Westminster  Hall 
authorities,"  said  he,  "  but  still  no  despicable  one  to  a  man 
possessing  the  largely-practical  Mr.  Merdle's  knowledge  of 
the  world." 

Mr.  Merdle  looked  as  if  he  thought  he  would  say  some- 
thing, but  subsequently  looked  as  if  he  thought  he  wouldn't. 
The  interval  afforded  time  for  Bishop  to  be  announced. 

Bishop  came  in  with  meekness,  and  yet  with  a  strong  and 
rapid  step,,  as  if  he  wanted  to   get  his  seven-league   dress- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  561 

shoes  on,  and  go  round  the  world  to  see  that  every  body 
was  in  a  satisfactory  state.  Bishop  had  no  idea  that  there 
was  any  thing  significant  in  the  occasion.  That  was  the 
most  remarkable  trait  in  his  demeanor.  He  was  crisp,  fresh, 
cheerful,  affable,  bland  ;  but  so  surprisingly  innocent. 

Bar  slided  up  to  prefer  his  politest  inquiries  in  reference 
to  the  health  of  Mrs.  Bishop.  Mrs.  Bishop  had  been  a  little 
unfortunate  in  the  article  of  taking  cold  at  a  confirmation, 
but  otherwise  was  well.  Young  Mr.  Bishop  was  also  well. 
He  was  down,  with  his  young  wife  and  little  family,  at  his 
cure  of  souls. 

The  representatives  of  the  Barnacle  chorus  dropped  in 
next,  and  Mr.  Merdle's  physician  dropped  in  next.  Bar, 
who  had  a  bit  of  one  eye  and  a  bit  of  his  double  eye-glass 
for  every  one  who  came  in  at  the  door,  no  matter  with  whom 
he  was  conversing  or  what  he  was  talking  about,  got  among 
them  all  by  some  skillful  means,  without  being  seen  to  get 
at  them,  and  touched  each  individual  gentleman  of  the  jury 
on  his  own  individual  favorite  spot.  With  some  of  the  cho- 
rus, he  laughed  about  the  sleepy  member  who  had  gone  out 
of  the  lobby  the  other  night,  and  voted  the  wrong  way:  with 
others,  he  deplored  the  innovating  spirit  in  the  time  which 
could  not  even  be  prevented  from  taking  an  unnatural  in- 
terest in  the  public  service  and  the  public  money  :  with  the 
physician  he  had  a  word  to  say  about  the  general  health  ; 
he  had  also  a  little  information  to  ask  him  for,  concerning  a 
professional  man,  of  unquestioned  erudition  and  polished 
manners — but  those  credentiala  in  their  highest  develop- 
ment he  believed  were  the  possession  of  other  professors  of 
the  healing  art  (jury  droop) — whom  he  happened  to  have  in 
the  witness-box  the  day  before  yesterday,  and  from  whom  he 
had  elicited  in  cross-examination  that  he  claimed  to  be  one  of 
the  exponents  of  this  new  mode  of  treatment  which  appeared 
to  Bar  to — eh  ! — well,  Bar  thought  so;  Bar  had  thought,  and 
hoped,  Physician  would  tell  him  so.  Without  presuming  to 
decide  where  doctors  disagreed,  it  did  appear  to  Bar,  view- 
ing it  as  a  question  of  common  sense  and  not  of  so-called 
legal  penetration,  that  this  new  system  was — might  he,  in  the 
presence  of  so  great  an  authority — say,  humbug  ?  Ah  ! 
Fortified  by  such  encouragement,  he  could  venture  to  say 
humbug  ;  and  now  Bar's  mind  was  relieved. 

Mr.  Tite  Barnacle,  who,  like  Dr.  Johnson's  celebrated 
acquaintance,  had  only  one  idea  in  his  head,  and  that  was  a 
wrong  one,  had  appeared  by  this  time.     This  eminent  gen- 


562  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

tleman  and  Mr.  Merdle,  seated  diverse  ways  and  with  ru- 
minating aspects,  on  a  yellow  ottoman  in  the  light  of  the 
fire,  holding  no  verbal  communication  with  each  other,  bore 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  two  cows  in  the  Cuyp  picture 
over  against  them. 

But  now,  Lord  Decimus  arrived.  The  chief  butler,  who 
up  to  this  time  had  limited  himself  to  a  branch  of  his  usual 
function  by  looking  at  the  company  as  they  entered  (and 
that,  with  more  of  defiance  than  favor),  put  himself  so  far  out 
of  his  way  as  to  come  up  stairs  with  him  and  announce  him. 
Lord  Decimus  being  an  overpowering  peer,  a  bashful  young 
member  of  the  lower  house,  who  was  the  last  fish  but  one 
caught  by  the  Barnacles,  and  who  had  been  invited  on  the 
occasion  to  commemorate  his  capture,  shut  his  eyes  when 
his  lordship  came  in. 

Lord  Decimus  nevertheless  was  glad  to  see  the  member. 
He  was  also  glad  to  see  Mr.  Merdle,  glad  to  see  Bishop,  glad 
to  see  Bar,  glad  to  see  Physician,  glad  to  see  Tite  Barnacle, 
glad  to  see  chorus,  glad  to  see  Ferdinand  his  private  secre- 
tary. Lord  Decimus,  though  one  of  the  greatest  of  the  earth, 
was  not  remarkable  for  ingratiatory  manners,  and  Ferdi- 
nand had  coached  him  up  to  the  point  of  noticing  all  the 
fellows  he  might  find  there,  and  saying  he  was  glad  to  see 
them.  When  he  had  achieved  this  rush  of  vivacity  and  con- 
descension, his  lordship  composed  himself  into  the  picture 
after  Cuyp,  and  made  a  third  cow  in  the  group. 

Bar,  who  felt  that  he  had  got  all  the  rest  of  the  jury  and 
must  now  lay  hold  of  the  foreman,  soon  came  sliding  up, 
double  eye-glass  in  hand.  Bar  tendered  the  weather,  as  a 
subject  neatly  aloof  from  official  reserve,  for  the  foreman's 
consideration.  Bar  said  that  he  was  told  (as  every  body  al- 
ways is  told,  though  who  tells  them,  and  why,  will  forever 
remain  a  mystery),  that  there  was  to  be  no  wall-fruit  this 
year.  Lord  Decimus  had  not  heard  any  thing  amiss  of  his 
peaches,  but  rather  believed,  if  his  people  were  correct,  he 
was  to  have  no  apples.  No  apples  ?  Bar  was  lost  in  aston- 
ishment and  concern.  It  would  have  been  all  one  to  him,  in 
reality,  if  there  had  not  been  a  pippin  on  the  surface  of  the 
earth,  but  his  show  of  interest  in  this  apple  question  was  pos- 
itively painful.  Now,  to  what,  Lord  Decimus — for  we 
troublesome  lawyers  loved  to  gather  information,  and  could 
never  tell  how  useful  it  might  prove  to  us — to  what.  Lord 
Decimus,  was  this  to  be  attributed  ?  Lord  Decimus  could 
not  undertake  to  propound  any  theory  about  it.    This  might 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  563 

have  stopped  another  man  ;  but  Bar  sticking  to  him  fresh 
as  ever,  said,  *'  As  to  pears,  now  ? " 

Long  after  Bar  got  made  attorney-general,  this  was  told 
of  him  as  a  master-stroke.  Lord  Decimus  had  a  reminiscence 
about  a  pear-tree,  formerly  growing  in  a  garden  near  the  back 
of  his  dame's  house  at  Eton,  upon  which  pear-tree  the  only 
joke  of  his  life  perennially  bloomed.  It  was  a  joke  of  a  com- 
pact and  portable  nature,  turning  on  the  difference  between 
Eton  pears  and  parliamentary  pairs  ;  but,  it  was  a  joke,  a  re- 
fined relish  of  which  would  seem  to  have  appeared  to  Lord 
Decimus  impossible  to  be  had,  without  a  thorough  and  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  the  tree.  Therefore,  the  story  at 
first  had  no  idea  of  such  a  tree,  sir,  then  gradually  found  it 
in  winter,  carried  it  through  the  changing  seasons,  saw  it 
bud,  saw  it  blossom,  saw  it  bear  fruit,  saw  the  fruit  ripen,  in 
short,  the  story  cultivated  the  tree  in  that  diligent  and 
minute  manner  before  it  got  out  of  the  bed-room  window  to 
steal  the  fruit,  that  many  thanks  had  been  offered  up  by 
belated  listeners  for  the  tree's  having  been  planted  and  grafted 
prior  to  Lord  Decimus's  tin?  v.  Bar's  interest  in  apples  was 
so  overtopped  by  the  wrapt  suspense  in  which  he  pursued 
the  changes  of  these  pears^  from  the  moment  when  Lord 
Decimus  solemnly  opened  with  '^  your  mentioning  pears 
recalls  to  my  remembrance  a  pear-tree,"  down  to  the  rich 
conclusion,  '^  and  so  we  pass,  through  the  various  changes 
of  life,  from  Eton  pears  to  parliamentary  pairs,"  that  he  had 
to  go  dowm  stairs  with  Lord  Decimus,  and  even  then  to  be 
seated  next  to  him  at  table,  in  order  that  he  might  hear  the 
anecdote  out.  By  that  time.  Bar  felt  that  he  had  secured 
the  foreman,  and  might  go  to  dinner  with  a  good  appetite. 

It  was  a  dinner  to  provoke  an  appetite,  though  he  had 
not  had  one.  The  rarest  dishes,  sumptuously  cooked  and 
sumptuously  served  ;  the  choicest  fruits  ;  the  most  exquisite 
wines  ;  marvels  of  workmanship  in  gold  and  silver,  china 
and  glass  ;  innumerable  things  delicious  to  the  senses  of 
taste,  smell,  and  sight,  were  insinuated  into  its  composition. 

Oh,  what  a  wonderful  man  this  Merdle,  what  a  great  man, 
what  a  master  man,  how  blessedly  and  enviably  endowed — 
in  one  word,  what  a  rich  man  ! 

He  took  his  usual  poor  eighteen-penny-worth  of  food,  in 
his  usual  indigestive  way,  and  had  as  little  to  say  for  himself 
as  ever  a  wonderful  man  had.  Fortunately  Lord  Decimus 
was  one  of  those  sublimities  who  have  no  occasion  to  be 
talked  to,  for  they  can  be  at  any  time  sufficiently  occupied 


564  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with  the  contemplation  of  their  own  greatness.  This  enabled 
the  bashful  young  member  to  keep  his  eyes  open  long 
enough  at  a  time  to  see  his  dinner.  But  whenever  Lord 
Decimus  spoke,  he  shut  them  again. 

The  agreeable  young  Barnacle,  and  Bar,  were  the  talkers 
of  the  party.  Bishop  would  have  been  exceedingly  agree- 
able also,  but  that  his  innocence  stood  in  his  way.  He  was 
so  soon  left  behind.-  When  there  was  any  little  hint  of  any 
thing  beinp;  in  the  wind,  he  got  lost  directly.  Worldly  affairs 
were  too  much  for  him ;  he  couldn't  make  them  out 
at  all. 

This  was  observable  when  Bar  said,  incidentally,  that  he 
was  happy  to  have  heard  that  we  were  soon  to  have  the 
advantage  of  enlisting  on  the  good  side,  the  sound  and  plain 
sagacity — not  demonstrative  or  ostentatious,  but  thoroughly 
sound  and  practical — of  our  friend  Mr.  Sparkler. 

Ferdinand  Barnacle  laughed,  and  said  oh  yes,  he  believed 
so.     A  vote  was  a  vote,  and  always  acceptable. 

Bar  was  sorry  to  miss  our  good  friend  Mr.  Sparkler  to- 
day, Mr.  Merdle. 

"  He  is  away  with  Mrs.  Merdle,"  returned  that  gentleman, 
slowly  coming  out  of  a  long  abstraction,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  had  been  fitting  a  tablespoon  up  his  sleeve.  ^'  It 
is  not  indispensable  for  him  to  be  on  the  spot." 

"  The  magic  name  of  Merdle,"  said  Bar,  with  the  jury 
droop,  ^'  no  doubt  will  suffice  for  all." 

^^  Why — yes— I  believe  so,"  assented  Mr.  Merdle,  putting 
the  spoon  aside,  and  clumsily  hiding  each  of  his  hands  in 
the  coat-cuff  of  the  other  hand.  "  I  believe  the  people  in 
my  interest  down  there,  will  not  make  any  difficulty." 

"  Model  people,"  said  Bar. 

"  I  am  glad  you  approve  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

**  And  the  people  of  those  other  two  places,  now,"  pur- 
sued Bar,  with  a  bright  twinkle  in  his  keen  eye,  as  it  slightly 
turned  in  the  direction  of  his  magnificent  neighbor  ;  '^we 
lawyers  are  always  curious,  always  inquisitive,  always  pick- 
ing up  odds  and  ends  for  our  patchwork  minds,  since  there 
is  no  knowing  when  and  where  they  may  fit  into  some  corner; 
— the  people  of  those  other  two  places,  now  ?  Do  they  yield 
so  laudably  to  the  vast  and  cumulative  influence  of  such 
enterprise  and  such  renown  ;  do  those  little  rills  become 
absorbed  so  quietly  and  easily,  and,  as  it  were  by  the 
influence  of  natural  laws,  so  beautifully,  in  the  swoop  of 
the   majestic    stream   as   it  flows    upon  its  wondrous   way 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  565 

enriching  the  surrounding  lands;  that  their  course  is  perfectly 
to  be  calculated,  and  distinctly  to  be  predicated  ?  " 

Mr.  Merdle,  a  little  troubled  by  Bar's  eloquence,  looked 
fitfully  about  the  nearest  salt-cellar  for  some  moments,  and 
then  said,  hesi^^ating  : 

"  They  are  perfectly  aware,  sir,  of  their  duty  to  society. 
They  will  return  any  body  I  send  to  them  for  that  purpose." 

*'  Cheering  to  know,"  said  Bar.     '*  Cheering  to  know." 

The  three  places  in  question  were  three  little  rotten  holes 
in  this  island,  containing  three  little  ignorant,  drunken, 
guzzling,  dirty,  out-of-the-way  constituencies,  that  had  reeled 
into  Mr.  Merdle's  pocket.  Ferdinand  Barnacle  laughed  in 
his  easy  way,  and  airily  said  they  were  a  nice  set  of  fellows. 
Bishop,  mentally  perambulating  among  paths  of  peace,  was 
altogether  swallowed  up  in  absence  of  mind. 

"  Pray,"  asked  Lord  Decimus,  casting  his  eyes  around  the 
table,  *^  what  is  this  story  I  have  heard  of  a  gentleman  long 
confined  in  a  debtors'  prison,  proving  to  be  of  a  wealthy 
family,  and  having  come  into  the  inheritance  of  a  large  sum 
of  money  ?  I  have  met  with  a  variety  of  allusions  to  it.  Do 
you  know  any  thing  of  it,  Ferdinand  ?  " 

*'  I  only  know  this  much,"  said  Ferdinand,  "that  he  has 
given  the  department  with  which  I  have  the  honor  to  be 
associated;  "  this  sparkling  young  Barnacle  threw  off  the 
phrase  sportively,  as  who  should  say.  We  know  all  about 
these  forms  of  speech,  but  we  must  keep  it  up,  we  must 
keep  the*game  alive;  "no  end  of  trouble,  and  has  put  us 
into  innumerable  fixes." 

"  Fixes  ?  "  repeated  Lord  Decimus,  with  a  majestic  paus- 
ing and  pondering  on  the  word  that  made  the  bashful  mem- 
ber shut  his  eyes  quite  tight.     "  Fixes  ?  " 

"  A  very  perplexing  business  indeed,"  observed  Mr.  Tite 
Barnacle,  with  an  air  of  grave  resentment. 

"What,"  said  Lord  Decimus,  "was  the  character  of  his 
business;  what  was  the  nature  of  these — a — fixes,  Ferdi- 
nand ?  " 

"  Oh,  it*s  a  good  story,  as  a  story,"  returned  that  gentle- 
man; "as  good  a  thing  of  its  kind,  as  need  be.  This  Mr. 
Dorrit  (his  name  is  Dorrit)  had  incurred  a  responsibility  to 
us,  ages  before  the  fairy  came  out  of  the  bank  and  gave  him 
his  fortune,  under  a  bond  he  had  signed  for  the  performance 
of  a  contract  which  was  not  at  all  performed.  He  was  a 
partner  in  a  house  in  some  large  way — spirits,  or  buttons,  or 
wine,  or  blacking,  or  oatmeal,  or  woolen,  or  pork,  or  hooks- 


566  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and-eyes,  or  iron,  or  treacle,  or  shoes,  or  something  or  other 
that  was  wanted  for  troops,  or  seamen,  or  somebody — and 
the  house  burst,  and  we  being  among  the  creditors,  detainers 
were  lodged  on  the  part  of  the  crown  in  a  scientific  manner, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it.  When  the  fairy  had  appeared  and  he 
wanted  to  pay  us  off,  egad  we  had  got  into  such  an  exem- 
plary state  of  checking  and  counter-checking,  signing  and 
counter-signing,  that  it  was  six  months  before  we  knew  how 
to  take  the  money,  or  how  to  give  a  receipt  for  it.  It  was  a 
triumph  of  public  business,"  said  this  handsome  young  Bar- 
nacle, laughing  heartily.  '*  You  never  saw  such  a  lot  of 
forms  in  your  life.  ^  Why,'  the  attorney  said  to  me  one  day, 
*  if  I  wanted  this  office  to  give  me  two  or  three  thousand 
pounds  instead  of  take  it,  I  couldn't  have  more  trouble 
about  it.'  '  You  are  right,  old  fellow,'  I  told  him,  *  and  in 
future  you'll  know  that  we  have  something  to  do  here.'  " 
The  pleasant  young  Barnacle  finished  by  once  more  laugh- 
ing heartily.  He  was  a  very  easy,  pleasant  fellow  indeed, 
and  his  manners  were  exceedingly  winning. 

Mr.  Tite  Barnacle's  view  of  the  business  was  of  a  less  airy 
character.  He  took  it  ill  that  Mr.  Dorrit  had  troubled  the 
department  by  wanting  to  pay  the  money,  and  considered  it 
a  grossly  informal  thing  to  do  after  so  many  years.  But  Mr. 
Tite  Barnacle  was  a  buttoned-up  man,  and  consequently  a 
weighty  one.  All  buttoned-up  men  are  weighty.  All  but- 
toned-up men  are  believed  in.  Whether  or  no  the  reserved 
and  never-exercised  power  of  unbuttoning,  fascinates  man- 
kind; whether  or  no  wisdom  is  supposed  to  condense  and 
augment  when  buttoned  up,  and  to  evaporate  when  unbut- 
toned; it  is  certain  that  the  man  to  whom  importance  is  ac- 
corded is  the  buttoned-up  man.  Mr.  Tite  Barnacle  never 
would  have  passed  for  half  his  current  value,  unless  his  coat 
had  been  always  buttoned  up  to  his  white  cravat. 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Lord  Decimus,  '^  if  Mr.  Darrit — or 
Dorrit — has  any  family  ?  " 

Nobody  else  replying,  the  host  said,  **  He  has  two  daugh- 
ters, my  lord." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  acquainted  with  him  ?  "  asked  Lord  Deci- 
mus. 

"  Mrs.  Merdle  is.  Mr.  Sparkler  is,  too.  In  fact,"  said 
Mr.  Merdle,  "  I  rather  believe  that  one  of  the  young  ladies 
has  made  an  impression  on  Edmund  Sparkler.  He  is  sus- 
ceptible,  and  —  I  —  think  —  the   conquest — "      Here   Mr. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  567 

Merdle  stopped,  and  looked  at  the  table-cloth ;  as  he 
usually  did  when  he  found  himself  observed  or  listened 
to. 

Bar  was  uncommonly  pleased  to  find  that  the  Merdle  fam- 
ily and  this  family  had  already  been  brought  into  contact. 
He  submitted,  in  a  low  voice  across  the  table  to  Bishop,  that 
it  was  a  kind  of  analogical  illustration  of  those  physical  laws, 
in  virtue  of  which  like  flies  to  like.  He  regarded  this  power 
of  attraction  in  wealth  4o  draw  wealth  to  it,  as  something 
remarkably  interesting  and  curious — something  indefinably 
allied  to  the  loadstone  and  gravitation.  Bishop,  who  had 
ambled  back  to  earth  again  when  the  present  theme  was 
broached,  acquiesced.  He  said  it  was  indeed  highly  import- 
ant to  society  that  one  in  the  trying  situation  of  unexpect- 
edly finding  himself  invested  with  a  power  for  good  or  for  evil 
in  society,  should  become,  as  it  were,  merged  in  the  superior 
power  of  a  more  legitimate  and  more  gigantic  growth,  the  in- 
fluence of  which  (as  in  the  case  of  our  friend,  at  whose  board 
we  sat)  was  habitually  exercised  in  harmony  with  the  best  in- 
terests of  society.  Thus,  instead  of  two  rival  and  contending 
flames,  a  larger  and  a  lesser,  each  burning  with  a  lurid  and 
uncertain  glare,  we  had  a  blended  and  a  softened  light  whose 
genial  ray  diffused  an  equable  warmth  throughout  the  land. 
Bishop  seemed  to  like  his  own  way  of  putting  the  case  very 
much,  and  rather  dwelt  upon  it  ;  Bar,  meanwhile  (not  to 
throw  away  a  juryman),  making  a  show  of  sitting  at  his  feet 
and  feeding  on  his  precepts. 

The  dinner  and  dessert  being  three  hours  long,  the  bash- 
ful member  cooled  in  the  shadow  of  Lord  Decimus  faster 
than  he  warmed  with  food  and  drink,  and  had  but  a  chilly 
time  of  it.  Lord  Decimus,  like  a  tall  tower  in  a  flat  country, 
seemed  to  project  himself  across  the  table-cloth,  hide  the 
light  from  the  honorable  member,  cool  the  honorable  mem- 
ber's marrow,  and  give  him  a  woeful  idea  of  distance.  When 
he  asked  this  unfortunate  traveler  to  take  wine,  he  encom- 
passed his  faltering  steps  with  the  gloomiest  of  shades  ;  and 
when  he  said,  "Your  health,  sir!"  all  around  him  was  bar- 
renness and  desolation. 

At  length  Lord  Decimus,  with  a  coffee-cup  in  his  hand, 
began  to  hover  about  among  the  pictures,  and  to  cause  an  in- 
teresting speculation  to  arise  in  all  minds  as  to  the  probabili- 
ties of  his  ceasing  to  hover,  and  enabling  the  smaller  birds 
to  flutter  up  stairs  ;  which  could  not  be  done  until  he  had 
urged  his  noble  pinions  in  that  direction.     After  some  de- 


568  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

lay,  and  several  stretches  of  his  wings  which  came  to  noth- 
ing, he  soared  to  the  drawing-room. 

And  here  a  difficulty  arose,  which  always  does  arise,  when 
two  people  are  specially  brought  together  at  a  dinner  to  con- 
fer with  one  another.  Every  body  (except  Bishop,  who  had 
no  suspicion  of  it)  knew  perfectly  well  that  this  dinner  had 
been  eaten  and  drunk,  specifically  to  the  end  that  Lord 
Decimus  and  Mr.  Merdle  should  have  five  minutes'  conver- 
sation together.  The  opportunity*so  elaborately  prepared 
was  now  arrived,  and  it  seemed  from  that  moment  that  no 
mere  human  ingenuity  coj^ld  so  much  as  get  the  two  chief- 
tains into  the  same  room.  Mr.  Merdle  and  his  noble  guest 
persisted  in  prowling  about  at  opposite  ends  of  the  perspec- 
tive. It  was  in  vain  for  the  engaging  Ferdinand  to  bring 
Lord  Decimus  to  look  at  the  bronze  horses  near  Mr.  Merdle. 
Then,  Mr.  Merdle  evaded,  and  wandered  away.  It  was  in 
vain  for  him  to  bring  Mr.  Merdle  to  Lord  Decimus  to  tell 
him  the  history  of  the  unique  Dresden  vases.  Then,  Lord 
Decimus  evaded  and  wandered  away,  while  he  was  getting 
his  man  up  to  the  mark. 

'^  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  thing  as  this  ?"  said  Ferdinand 
to  Bar,  when  he  had  been  baffled  twenty  times. 

"  Often,"  returned  Bar. 

"  Unless  I  butt  one  of  them  into  an  appointed  corner,  and 
you  butt  the  other,"  said  Ferdinand,  "  it  will  not  come  off 
after  all." 

*'  Very  good,"  said  Bar.  "I'll  butt  Merdle,  if  you  like  ; 
but  not  my  lord." 

Ferdinand  laughed,  in  the  midst  of  his  vexation.  '^  Con- 
found them  both  !"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch.  ^'  I  want  to 
get  away.  Why  the  deuce  can't  they  come  together  !  They 
both  know  what  they  want  and  mean  to  do.  Look  at  them  !  " 

They  were  still  looming  at  opposite  ends  of  the  perspec- 
tive, each  with  an  absurd  pretense  of  not  having  the  other 
on  his  mind,  which  could  not  have  been  more  transparently 
ridiculous  though  his  real  mind  had  been  chalked  on  his  back. 
Bishop,  who  had  just  now  made  a  third  with  Bar  and  Ferdi- 
nand, but  whose  innocence  had  again  cut  him  out  of  the  sub- 
ject and  washed  him  in  sweet  oil,  was  seen  to  approach  Lord 
Decimus  and  glide  into  conversation. 

*'  I  must  get  Merdle's  doctor  to  catch  and  secure  him,  I 
suppose,"  said  Ferdinand  ;  ''and  then  I  must  lay  hold  of  m.y 
illustrious  kinsman,  and  decoy  him  if  I  can — drag  him  if  I 
can't — to  the  conference." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  569 

"  Since  you  do  me  the  honor/*  said  Bar,  with  his  slyest 
smile,  ""  to  ask  for  my  poor  aid,  it  shall  be  yours  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  I  don't  think  this  is  to  be  done  by  one 
man.  But,  if  you  will  undertake  to  pen  my  lord  into  that 
furthest  drawing-room  where  he  is  now  so  profoundly  en- 
gaged, I  will  undertake  to  bring  our  dear  Merdle  into  the 
presence  without  the  possibility  of  getting  away." 

^'  Done  !  "  said  Ferdinand.     "  Done  !  "  said  Bar. 

Bar  was  a  sight  wondrous  to  behold,  and  full  of  matter, 
when,  jauntily  waving  his  double  eye-glass  by  its  ribbon,  and 
jauntily  drooping  to  an  universe  of  jurymen,  he,  in  the  most 
accidental  manner  ever  seen,  found  himself  at  Mr.  Merdle's 
shoulder,  and  embraced  that  opportunity  of  mentioning  a 
little  point  to  him,  on  which  he  particularly  wished  to  be 
guided  by  the  light  of  his  practical  knowledge.  (Here  he 
took  Mr.  Merdle's  arm,  and  walked  him  gently  away.)  A 
banker,  whom  we  would  call  A.  B.,  advanced  a  considerable 
sum  of  money,  which  we  would  call  fifteen  thousand  pounds, 
to  a  client  or  customer  of  his,  whom  he  would  call  P.  Q. 
(Here,  as  they  were  getting  toward  Lord  Decimus,  he  held 
Mr.  Merdle  tight.)  As  a  security  for  the  repayment  of  this 
advance  to  P.  Q.,  Avhom  we  would  call  a  widow  lady,  there 
were  placed  in  A.  B.'s  hands  the  title-deeds  of  a  freehold 
estate,  which  we  would  call  Blinkiter  Doddles.  Now,  the 
point  was  this.  A  limited  right  of  felling  and  lopping  in  the 
woods  of  Blinkiter  Doddles,  lay  in  the  son  of  P.  Q.,  then  past 
his  majority,  and  whom  we  would  call  X.  Y. — but  really  this 
was  too  bad  !  In  the  presence  of  Lord  Decimus,  to  detain 
the  host  with  chopping  our  dry  chaff  of  law,  was  really  too 
bad  !  Another  time  !  Bar  was  truly  repentant,  and  would 
not  say  another  syllable.  Would  Bishop  favor  him  with  half- 
a-dozen  words  ?  (He  had  now  set  Mr.  Merdle  down  on  a 
couch,  side  by  side  with  Lord  Decimus,  and  to  it  they  must 
go,  now  or  never. 

And  now  the  rest  of  the  company,  highly  excited  and  in- 
terested, always  excepting  Bishop,  who  had  not  the  slightest 
idea  that  any  thing  was  going  on,  formed  in  one  group  round 
the  fire  in  the  next  drawing-rooni,  and  pretended  to  be  chat- 
ting easily  on  an  infinite  variety  of  small  topics,  while  every 
body's  thoughts  and  eyes  were  secretly  straying  toward  the 
secluded  pair.  The  chorus  were  excessively  nervous,  per- 
haps, as  laboring  under  the  dreadful  apprehension  that  some 
good  thing  was  going  to  be  diverted  from  them.  Bishop 
alone  talked   steadily  and  evenly.     He  conversed  with  the 


570  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

great  Physician  on  the  relaxation  of  the  throat  with  which 
young  curates  were  too  frequently  afflicted,  and  on  the  means 
of  lessening  the  great  prevalence  of  that  disorder  in  the 
church.  Physician,  as  a  general  rule,  was  of  opinion  that  the 
best  way  to  avoid  it  was  to  know  how  to  read  before  you  made 
a  profession  of  reading.  Bishop  said,  dubiously,  did  he  really 
think  so  ?     And  Physician  said,  decidedly,  yes,  he  did. 

Ferdinand,  meanwhile,  was  the  only  one  of  the  party  who 
skirmished  on  the  outside  of  the  circle  ;  he  kept  about  mid- 
way between  it  and  the  two,  as  if  some  sort  of  surgical  opera- 
tion were  being  performed  by  Lord  Decimus  on  Mr.  Merdle, 
or  by  Mr.  Merdle  on  Lord  Decimus,  and  his  services  might 
at  any  moment  be  required  as  dresser.  In  fact,  within  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  Lord  Decimus  called  to  him  "  Ferdinand  !  ** 
and  he  went,  and  took  his  place  in  the  conference  for  some 
five  minutes  more.  Then  a  half-suppressed  gasp  broke  out 
among  the  chorus  ;  for.  Lord  Decimus  rose  to  take  his  leave. 
Again  coached  up  by  Ferdinand  to  the  point  of  making  him- 
self popular,  he  shook  hands  in  the  most  brilliant  manner 
with  the  whole  company,  and  even  said  to  Bar,  "  I  hope  you 
were  not  bored  by  my  pears  ?  "  To  which  Bar  retorted, 
*'  Eton,  my  lord;  or  parliamentary  ?"  neatly  showing  that  he 
had  mastered  the  joke,  and  delicately  insinuating  that  he 
could  never  forget  it  while  his  life  remained. 

All  the  grave  importance  that  was  buttoned  up  in  Mr.  Tite 
Barnacle,  took  itself  away  next  ;  and  Ferdinand  took  himself 
away  next,  to  the  opera.  Some  of  the  rest  lingered  a  little, 
marrying  golden  liquor  glasses  to  Buhl  tables  with  sticky 
rings  ;  on  the  desperate  chance  of  Mr.  Merdle's  saying  some- 
thing. But  Merdle,  as  usual,  oozed  sluggishly  and  muddily 
about  his  drawing-room,  saying  never  a  word. 

In  a  day  or  two  it  was  announced  to  all  the  town  that 
Edmund  Sparkler,  Esquire,  son-in-law  of  the  eminent  Mr. 
Merdle,  of  world-wide  renown,  was  made  one  of  the  lords  of 
the  circumlocution  office  ;  and  proclamation  was  issued,  to 
all  true  believers,  that  this  admirable  appointment  was  to  be 
hailed  as  a  graceful  and  gracious  mark  of  homage,  rendered 
by  the  graceful  and  gracious  Decimus,  to  that  commercial  in- 
terest which  must  ever  in  a  great  commercial  country — and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  with  blast  of  trumpet.  So,  bolstered  by 
this  mark  of  government  homage,  tl^e  wonderful  bank  and 
all  the  other  wonderful  undertakings,  went  on  and  went 
up  ;  and  gapers  came  to  Harley  Street,  Cavendish  Square, 
only  to  look  at  the  house  where  the  golden  wonder  lived. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  571 

And  when  they  saw  the  chief  butler  looking  out  at  the 
hall-door  in  his  moments  of  condescension,  the  gapers  said 
how  rich  he  looked,  and  wondered  how  much  money  he  had 
in  the  wonderful  bank.  But,  if  they  had  known  that  respect- 
able Nemesis  better,  they  would  not  have  wondered  about  it, 
and  might  have  stated  the  amount  with  the  utmost  precision. 


CHAPTER  Xin. 

THE   PROGRESS   OF    AN    EPIDEMIC. 

That  it  is  at  least  as  difficult  to  stay  a  moral  infection  as  a 
physical  one;  that  such  a  disease  will  spread  with  the  malignity 
and  rapidity  of  the  plague  ;  that  the  contagion,  when  it  has 
once  made  head,  will  spare  no  pursuit  or  condition,  but  will 
lay  hold  on  people  in  the  soundest  health,  and  become  de- 
veloped in  the  most  unlikely  constitutions;  is  a  fact  as  firmly 
established  by  experience  as  that  we  human  creatures  breathe 
an  atmosphere.  A  blessing  beyond  appreciation  would  be 
conferred  upon  mankind,  if  the  tainted,  in  whose  weakness 
or  wickedness  these  virulent  disorders  are  bred,  could  be  in- 
stantly seized  and  placed  in  close  confinement  (not  to  say 
summarily  smothered)  before  the  poison  is  communicable. 

As  a  vast  fire  will  fill  the  air  to  a  great  distance  with  its 
roar,  so  the  sacred  flame  which  the  mighty  Barnacles  had 
fanned  caused  the  air  to  resound  more  and  more,  with  the 
name  of  Merdle.  It  was  deposited  on  every  lip,  and  carried 
into  every  ear.  There  never  was,  there  never  had  been, 
there  never  again  should  be,  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Merdle. 
Nobody,  as  aforesaid,  knew  what  he  had  done  ;  but  every 
body  knew  him  to  be  the  greatest  that  had  appeared. 

Down  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  where  there  was  not  one 
unappropriated  half-penny,  as  lively  an  interest  was  taken  in 
this  paragon  of  men  as  on  the  Stock  Exchange.  Mrs.  Plornish, 
now  established  in  the  small  grocery  and  general  trade  in  a 
snug  little '  shop  at  the  crack  end  of  the  yard,  at  the  top  of 
the  steps,  with  her  little  old  father  and  Maggy  acting  as  as- 
sistants, habitually  held  forth  about  him  over  the  counter,  in 
conversation  with  her  customers.  Mr.  Plornish,  who  had  a 
small  share  in  a  small  builder's  business  in  the  neighborhood, 
said,  trowel  in  hand,  on  the  steps  of  scaffolds  and  on  the  titles 
of  houses,  that  people  did  tell  him  as  Mr.  Merdle  was  the  one, 
mind  you,  to  put  us  all  to  rights  in  respects  of  that  which  all 


572 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


on  us  looked  to,  and  to  bring  us  all  safe  home  as  much  we 
needed,  mmd  you,  fur  toe  be  brought.  Mr.  Baptist,  sole 
lodger  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plornish,  was  reputed  in  whispers  to 
lay  by  the  savings  which  were  the  result  of  his  simple  and 
moderate  life,  for  investment  in  one  of  Mr.  Merdle's  certain 
enterprises.  The  female  Bleeding  Hearts,  when  they  came 
for  ounces  of  tea,  and  hundred-weights  of  talk,  gave  Mrs. 
Plornish  to  understand,  that  how,  ma'am,  they  had  heard 
from  their  cousin  Mary  Anne,  which  worked  in  the  line,  that 
his  lady's  dresses  would  fill  three  wagons.  That  how  she 
was  as  handsome  a  lady,  ma'am,  as  lived,  no  matter  wheres, 
and  a  busk  like  marble  itself.  That  how,  according  to  what 
they  were  told,  ma'am,  it  was  her  son  by  a  former  husband  as 
was  took  into  the  government  ;  and  a  general  he  had  been, 
and  armies  he  had  marched  again  and  victory  crowned,  if  all 
you  heard  was  to  be  believed.  That  how  it  was  reported  that 
Mr.  Merdle's  words  had  been,  that  if  they  could  have  made  it 
worth  his  while  to  take  the  whole  government  he  would  have 
took  it  without  a  profit,  but  that  take  it  he  could  not  and 
stand  a  loss.  That  how  it  was  not  to  be  expected,  ma'am, 
that  he  should  lose  by  it,  his  ways  being,  as  you  might  say 
and  utter  no  falsehood,  paved  with  gold;  but  that  how  it  was 
much  to  be  regretted  that  something  handsome  hadn't  been 
got  up  to  make  it  worth  his  while;  for  it  was  such  and  only 
such  that  knowed  the  heighth  to  which  the  bread  and  butch- 
ers' meat  had  rose,  and  it  was  such  and  only  such  that  both 
could  and  would  bring  that  heighth  down. 

So  rife  and  potent  was  the  fever  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard, 
that  Mr.  Panck's  rent-days  caused  no  interval  in  the  patients. 
The  disease  took  the  singular  form,  on  those  occasions,  of 
causing  the  infected  to  find  an  unfathomable  excuse  and 
consolation  in  allusion  to  the  magic  name. 

**  Now,  then  ! "  Mr.  Pancks  would  say  to  a  defaulting 
lodger,  ''  Pay  up  !     Come  on  !  " 

^'  I  haven't  got  it,  Mr.  Pancks,"  defaulter  would  reply. 
"  I  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  when  I  say  I  haven't  got  so  much 
as  a  single  sixpence  of  it  to  bless  myself  with." 

"  This  won't  do,  you  know,"  Mr.  Pancks  would  retort. 
**  You  don't  expect  it  will  do;  do  you  ? " 

Defaulter  would  admit  with  a  low-spirited,  ''  No,  sir," 
having  no  such  expectation. 

"  My  proprietor  isn't  going  to  stand  this,  you  know,"  Mr. 
Pancks  would  proceed.  ^'  He  don't  send  me  here  for  this. 
Pay  up  !     Come  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRlT.  sH 

The  defaulter  would  make  answer,  "  Ah,  Mr.  Pancks.  If 
I  was  the  rich  gentleman,  whose  name  is  in  every  body's  mouth 
— if  my  name  was  Merdle,  sir — I'd  soon  pay  up,  and  be  glad 
to  do  it.'' 

Dialogues  on  the  rent-question  usually  took  place  at  the 
house-doors  or  in  the  entries,  and  in  the  presence  of  several 
deeply  interested  Bleeding  Hearts.  They  always  received 
a  reference  of  this  kind  with  a  low  murmur  of  response,  as 
if  it  were  convincing  ;  and  the  defaulter,  however  black  and 
discomfited  before,  always  cheered  up  a  little  in  making  it. 

"  If  I  was  Mr.  Merdle,  sir,  you  wouldn't  have  cause  to 
complain  of  me  then.  No,  believe  me  !  "  the  defaulter 
would  proceed  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  "  I'd  pay  up  so 
quick  then,  Mr.  Pancks,  that  you  shouldn't  have  to  ask  me.'* 

The  response  would  be  heard  again  here,  implying  that  it 
was  impossible  to  say  any  thing  fairer,  and  that  this  was  the 
next  thing  to  paying  the  money  down. 

Mr.  Pancks  would  be  now  reduced  to  saying  as  he  booked 
the  case,  *'  Well  !  You'll  have  the  broker  in,  and  be  turned 
out  ;  that's  what'll  happen  to  you.  It's  no  use  talking  to 
me  about  Mr.  Merdle.  You  are  not  Mr.  Merdle,  any  more 
than  I  am.'* 

"  No,  sir,"  the  defaulter  would  reply.  "  I  only  wish  you 
were  him,  sir." 

The  response  would  take  this  up  quickly  :  replying  with 
great  feeling,  **  Only  wish  you  were  him,  sir." 

"  You'd  be  easier  with  us  if  you  were  Mr.  Merdle,  sir," 
the  defaulter  would  go  on  with  rising  spirits,  "  and  it  would 
be  better  for  all  parties.  Better  for  our  sakes,  and  better 
for  yours,  too.  You  wouldn't  have  to  worry  no  one  then, 
sir.  You  wouldn't  have  to  worry  us,  and  you  wouldn't  have 
to  worry  yourself.  You'd  be  easier  in  your  own  mind,  sir, 
and  you'd  leave  others  easier,  too,  you  would,  if  you  were 
Mr.  Merdle." 

Mr.  Pancks,  in  whom  these  impersonal  compliments  pro- 
duced an  irresistible  sheepishness,  never  rallied  after  such  a 
charge.  He  could  only  bite  his  nails  and  puff. away  to  the 
next  defaulter.  The  responsive  Bleeding  Hearts  would  then 
gather  round  the  defaulter  whom  he  had  just  abandoned, 
and  the  most  extravagant  rumors  would  circulate  among 
them,  to  their  great  comfort,  touching  the  amount-  of  Mr. 
Merdle's  ready  money. 

From  one  of  the  many  such  defeats  of  one  of  many  rent- 
days,    Mr.  Pancks,    having    finished    his    day's    collection, 


574  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

repaired  with  his  note-book  under  his  arm,  to  Mrs.  Plorn- 
ish's  corner.  Mr.  Pancks's  object  was  not  professional,  but 
social.  He  had  had  a  trying  day,  and  wanted  a  little  bright- 
ening. By  this  time  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with  the 
Plornish  family,  having  often  looked  in  upon  them,  at  simi- 
lar seasons,  and  borne  his  part  in  recollections  of  Miss 
Dorrit. 

Mrs.  Plornish's  shop-parlor  had  been  decorated  under  her 
own  eye,  and  presented,  on  the  side  toward  the  shop,  a  little 
fiction  in  which  Mrs.  Plornish  unspeakably  rejoiced.  This 
poetical  heightening  of*the  parlor  consisted  in  the  wall  being 
painted  to  represent  the  exterior  of  a  thatched  cottage  ; 
the  artist  having  introduced  (in  as  effective  a  manner  as  he 
found  compatible  with  their  highly  disproportioned  dimen- 
sions) the  real  door  and  window.  The  modest  sunflov/er 
and  hollyhock  were  depicted  as  flourishing  with  great  luxur- 
iance on  this  rustic  dwelling,  while  a  quantity  of  dense 
smoke  issuing  from  the  chimney  indicated  good  cheer  within, 
and  also,  perhaps,  that  it  had  not  been  lately  swept.  A 
faithful  dog  was  represented  as  flying  at  the  legs  of  the 
friendly  visitor,  from  the  threshold  ;  and  a  circular  pigeon- 
house,  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  pigeons,  arose  from  behind 
the  garden-paling.  On  the  door  (when  it  was  shut),  appeared 
the  semblance  of  a  brass-plate,  presenting  the  inscription, 
Happy  Cottage,  T.  and  M.  Plornish  ;  the  partnership 
expressing  man  and  wife.  No  poetry  and  no  art  ever 
charmed  the  imagination  more  than  the  union  of  the  two 
in  this  counterfeit  cottage  charmed  Mrs.  Plornish.  It  was 
nothing  to  her  that  Plornish  had  a  habit  of  leaning  against 
it  as  he  smoked  his  pipe  after  work,  when  his  hat  blotted 
out  the  pigeon-house  and  all  the  pigeons,  when  his  back 
swallowed  up  the  dwelling,  when  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
uprooted  the  blooming  garden  and  laid  waste  the  adjacent 
country.  To  Mrs.  Plornish,  it  was  still  a  most  beautiful 
cottage,  a  most  wonderful  deception  ;  and  it  made  no  differ- 
ence that  Mr.  Plornish's  eye  was  some  inches  above  the  level 
of  the  gable  bed-room  in  the  thatch.  To  come  out  into  the 
shop  after  it  was  shut,  and  hear  her  father  sing  a  song  inside 
this  cottage,  was  a  perfect  pastoral  to  Mrs.  Plornish,  the 
Golden  Age  revived.  And  truly  if  that  famous  period  had 
been  revived,  or  had  ever  been  at  all,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  it  would  have  produced  many  more  heartily  admir- 
ing daughters  than  the  poor  woman. 

Warned  of  a  visitor  by  the  tinkling  bell  at  the  shop-door, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  575 

Mrs.  Plornish  came  out  of  Happy  Cottage  to  see  who  it  might 
be.  "I  guessed  it  was  you,  Mr.  Pancks,"  said  she,  "  for  it's 
quite  your  regular  night ;  ain't  it  ?  Here's  father,  you  see, 
come  out  to  serve  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  like  a  brisk  young 
shopman.  Ain't  he  looking  well  ?  Father's  more  pleased  to 
see  you  than  if  you  was  a  customer,  for  he  dearly  loves  a 
gossip  ;  and  when  it  turns  upon  Miss  Dorrit,  he  loves  it  all 
the  more.  You  never  heard  father  in  such  a  voice  as  he  is 
in  at  present,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish,  her  own  voice  quavering, 
she  was  so  proud  and  pleased.  "  He  gave  us  Strephon  last 
night,  to  that  degree  that  Plornish  gets  up  and  makes  him 
this  speech  across  the  table.  *  John  Edward  Nandy,'  says 
Plornish  to  father,  *  I  never  heard  you  come  the  warbles  as 
I  have  heard  you  come  the  warbles  this  night.'  Ain't  it 
gratifying,  Mr.  Pancks,  though  ;  really  ?  " 

Mr.  Pancks,  who  had  snorted  at  the  old  man  in  his  friend- 
liest manner,  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  casually  asked 
whether  that  lively  altro  chap  had  come  in  yet  ?  Mrs.  Plor- 
nish answered  no,  not  yet,  though  he  had  gone  to  the  West- 
End  with  some  work,  and  had  said  he  should  be  back  by 
tea-time.  Mr.  Pancks  was  then  hospitably  pressed  into 
Happy  Cottage,  where  he  encountered  the  elder  Master 
Plornish  just  come  home  from  school.  Examining  that 
young  student,  lightly,  on  the  educational  proceedings  of  the 
day,  he  found  that  the  more  advanced  pupils  who  were  in 
the  large  text  and  the  letter  M,  had  been  set  the  copy 
Merdle,  Millions." 

**  And  how  diXQ  you  getting  on,  Mrs.  Plornish,"  said  Pancks, 
**  since  we're  mentioning  millions  ?  " 

*^  Very  steady,  indeed,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Plornish. 
"  Father,  dear,  would  you  go  into  the  shop  and  tidy  the  win- 
dow a  little  bit  before  tea,  your  taste  being  so  beautiful  ?  " 

John  Edward  Nandy  trotted  away,  much  gratified,  to 
comply  with  his  daughter's  request.  Mrs.  Plornish,  who 
was  always  in  mortal  terror  of  mentioning  pecuniary  affairs 
before  the  old  gentleman,  lest  any  disclosure  she  made  might 
rouse  his  spirit  and  induce  him  to  run  a\/ay  to  the  work- 
house, was  thus  left  free  to  be  confidential  with  Mr.  Pancks. 

"  It's  quite  true  that  the  business  is  very  steady  indeed," 
said  Mrs.  Plornish,  lowering  her  voice  ;  "  and  has  an  excel- 
lent connection.  The  only  thing  that  stands  in  its  way,  sir, 
is  the  credit." 

This  drawback,  rather  severely  felt  by  most  people  who 
engaged  in  commercial  transactions  with  the  inhabitants  of 


576  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  was  a  large  stumbling-block  in  Mrs. 
Plornish's  trade.  When  Mr.  Dorrit  had  established  her  in 
the  business,  the  Bleeding  Hearts  had  shown  an  amount  of 
emotion  and  a  determination  to  support  her  in  it,  that  did 
honor  to  human  nature.  Recognizing  her  claim  upon  their 
generous  feelings  as  one  who  had  long  been  a  member  of 
their  community,  they  pledged  themselves,  with  great  feel- 
ing, to  deal  with  Mrs.  Plornish,  come  what  would,  and 
bestow  their  patronage  on  no  other  establishment.  Influ- 
enced by  these  noble  sentiments,  they  had  even  gone  out  of 
their  way  to  purchase  little  luxuries  in  the  grocery  and  but- 
ter line  to  which  they  were  unaccustomed  ;  saying  to  one 
another,  that  if  they  did  stretch  a  point,  was  it  not  for  a 
neighbor  and  a  friend,  and  for  whom  ought  a  point  to  be 
stretched  if  not  for  such  ?  So  stimulated,  the  business  was 
extremely  brisk,  and  the  articles  in  stock  went  off  with  the 
greatest  celerity.  In  short,  if  the  Bleeding  Hearts  had  but 
paid,  the  undertaking  would  have  been  a  complete  success  ; 
whereas,  by  reason  of  their  exclusively  confining  themselves 
to  owing,  the  profits  actually  realized  had  not  yet  begun  to 
appear  in  the  books. 

Mr.  Pancks  was  making  a  very  porcupine  of  himself  by 
sticking  his  hair  up,  in  the  contemplation  of  this  state  of 
accounts,  when  old  Mr.  Nandy,  re-entering  the  cottage  with 
an  air  of  mystery,  entreated  them  to  come  and  look  at  the 
strange  behavior  of  Mr.  Baptist,  who  seemed  to  have  met 
with  something  that  had  scared  him.  All  three  going  into 
the  shop,  and  watching  through  the  window,  then  saw  Mr. 
Baptist,  pale  and  agitated,  go  through  the  following  extra- 
ordinary performances.  First,  he  was  observed  hiding  at 
the  top  of  the  steps  leading  down  into  the  yard,  and  peeping 
up  and  down  the  street,  with  his  head  cautiously  thrust  out 
close  to  the  side  of  the  shop-door.  After  very  anxious  scru- 
tiny he  came  out  of  his  retreat,  and  went  briskly  down  the 
street  as  if  he  were  going  away  altogether  ;  then,  suddenly 
turned  about,  and  went  at  the  same  pace,  and  with  the  same 
feint,  up  the  street.  He  had  gone  no  further  up  the  street 
than  he  had  gone  down,  when  he  crossed  the  road  and  dis- 
appeared. The  object  of  this  last  maneuver  was  only  appar- 
ent, when  his  entering  the  shop  with  a  sudden  twist,  from 
the  steps  again,  explained  that  he  had  made  a  wide  and 
obscure  circuit  round  to  the  other,  or  Doyce  and  Clennam, 
end  of  the  yard  and  had  come  through  the  yard  and  bolted 
in.     He  was  out  of  breath  by  that  time,  as  he  might  well  be, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  577 

and  his  heart  seemed  to  jerk  faster  than  the  little  shop  bell, 
as  it  quivered  and  jingled  behind  him  with  his  hasty  shutting 
of  the  door. 

"  Hallo,  old  chap  !  "  said  Mr.  Pancks.  '*  Altro,  old  boy  ! 
What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Mr.  Baptist,  or  Signor  Cavalletto,  understood  English  now 
almost  as  well  as  Mr.  Pancks  himself,  and  could  speak  it 
very  well  too.  Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Plornish,  with  a  pardon- 
able vanity  in  that  accomplishment  of  hers  which  made  her 
all  but  Italian,  stepped  in  as  interpreter. 

"  E  ask  know,"  said  Mrs.  Plonnish,  *'  what  go  wrong  ?  '* 

"  Come  into  the  happy  little  cottage,  padrona,"  returned 
Mr.  Baptist,  imparting  great  stealthiness  to  his  flurried  back- 
handed shake  of  his  right  forefinger.     "  Come  there  !  " 

Mrs.  Plornish  was  proud  of  the  title  padrona,  which  she 
regarded  as  signifying,  not  so  much  mistress  of  the  house, 
as  iT^istress  of  the  Italian  tongue.  She  immediately  complied 
with  Mr.  Baptist's  request,  and  they  all   went  into  the  cot- 

*'  E  ope  you  no  fright,**  said  Mrs.  Plornish  then,  inter- 
preting Mr.  Pancks  in  a  new  way  with  her  usual  fertility  of 
resource.     "  What  appen  ?    Peaka  padrona  !  '* 

"  I  have  seen  some  one,"  returned  Baptist.  "  I  have  rin- 
contrato  him." 

"  Im  ?     Oo  him  ?  '*  asked  Mrs.  Plornish. 

"A  bad  man.  A  baddest  man.  I  have  hoped  that  I 
should  never  see  him  again.'* 

"  Ow  you  know  him  bad  ? "  asked  Mrs.  Plornish. 

"  It  does  not  matter,  padrona.     I  know  it  too  well.** 

"E  see  you  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Plornish. 

"  No.     I  hope  not.     I  believe  not." 

"  He  says,"  Mrs.  Plornish  then  interpreted,  addressing 
her  father  and  Pancks  with  mild  condescension,  ^*  that  he 
has  met  a  bad  man,  but  he  hopes  the  bad  man  didn't  see 
him — Why,"  inquired  Mrs.  Plornish,  reverting  to  the  Italian 
language,  "  why  ope  bad  man  no  see  ?  " 

"  Padrona,  dearest,"  returned  the  little  foreigner  whom 
she  so  considerately  protected,  *'  do  not  ask  I  pray.  Once 
again,  I  say  it  matters  not.  I  have  fear«of  this  man.  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  him,  I  do  not  wish  to  be  known  of  him — 
never  again  !     Enough,  most  beautiful.     Leave  it." 

The  topic  was  so  disagreeable  to  him,  and  so  put  his 
usual  liveliness  to  the  rout,  that  Mrs.  Plornish  forbore  to 
press  him  further  :  the  rather  as  the  tea  had  been  drawing 


578  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

for  some  time  on  the  hob.  But  she  was  not  the  less  sur- 
prised and  curious  for  asking  no  more  questions  ;  neither 
was  Mr.  Pancks,  whose  expressive  breathing  had  been  labor- 
ing hard,  since  the  entrance  of  the  little  man,  like  a  loco- 
motive engine  with  a  great  load  getting  up  a  steep  incline. 
Maggy,  now  better  dressed  than  of  yore,  though  still  faithful 
to  the  monstrous  character  of  her  cap,  had  been  in  the  back- 
ground from  the  first  with  open  mouth  and  x^yes,  which 
staring  and  gaping  features  were  not  diminished  in  breadth 
by  the  untimely  suppression  of  the  subject.  However,  no 
more  was  said  about  it,  though  much  appeared  to  be 
thought  on  all  sides  :  by  no  means  excepting  the  two  young 
Plornishes,  who  partook  of  the  evening  meal  as  if  their  eat- 
ing the  bread  and  butter  were  rendered  almost  superfluous 
by  the  painful  probability  of  the  worst  of  men  shortly  pre- 
senting himself  for  the  purpose  of  eating  them,  Mr.  Baptist, 
by  degrees,  began  to  chirp  a  little  ;  but  never  stirred  from 
the  seat  he  had  taken  behind  the  door  and  close  to  the  win- 
dow, though  it  was  not  his  usual  place.  As  often  as  the 
little  bell  rang,  he  started  and  peeped  out  secretly,  with  the 
end  of  the  little  curtain  in  his  hand,  and  the  rest  before  his 
face  ;  evidently  not  at  all  satisfied  but  that  the  man  he 
dreaded  had  tracked  him  through  all  his  doublings  and 
turnings,  with  the  certainty  of  a  terrible  bloodhound. 

The  entrance,  at  various  times,  of  two  or  three  customers 
and  of  Mr.  Plornish,  gave  Mr.  Baptist  just  enough  of  this  em- 
ployment to  keep  the  attention  of  the  company  fixed  upon 
him.  Tea  was  over,  and  the  children  were  abed,  and  Mrs. 
Plornish  was  feeling  her  way  to  the  dutiful  proposal  that  her 
father  should  favor  them  with  Chloe,  when  the  bell  again 
rang,  and  Mr.  Clennam  came  in. 

Clennam  had  been  poring  late  over  his  books  and  letters  ; 
for,  the  waiting-rooms  of  the  circomlocution  office  ravaged 
his  time  sorely.  Over  and  above  that,  he  was  depressed  and 
made  uneasy  by  the  late  occurrence  at  his  mother's.  He 
looked  worn  and  solitary.  He  felt  so,  too  ;  but,  neverthe- 
less, was  returning  home  from  his  counting-house  by  that 
end  of  the  yard,  to  give  them  the  intelligence  that  he  had 
received  another  letter  from  Miss  Dorrit. 

The  news  made  a  sensation  in  the  cottage  which  drew  off 
the  general  attention  from  Mr.  Baptist.  Maggy,  who  pushed 
her  way  into  the  foreground  immediately,  would  have  seemed 
to  draw  in  the  tidings  of  her  little  mother  equally  at  her  ears, 
nose,  mouth,  and  eyes,  but  that  the  last  were  obstructed  by 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  579 

tears.  She  was  particularly  delighted  when  Clennam  assured 
her  that  there  were  hospitals,  and  very  kindly  conducted  hos- 
pitals, in  Rome.  Mr.  Pancks  rose  into  new  distinction  in  vir- 
tue of  being  specially  remembered  in  the  letter.  Every  body 
was  pleased  and  interested,  and  Clennam  was  well  repaid 
for  his  trouble. 

*^  But  you  are  tired,  sir.  Let  me  make  you  a  cup  of  tea," 
said  Mrs.  Plornish,  "  if  you'd  condescend  to  take  such  a 
thing  in  the  cottage  ;  and  many  thanks  to  you,  too,  I  am 
sure,  for  bearing  us  in  mind  so  kindly." 

Mr.  Plornish  deeming  it  incumbent  on  him,  as  host,  to 
add  his  personal  acknqwledgments,  tendered  them  in  the 
form  which  always  expressed  his  highest  ideal  of  a  combi- 
nation of  ceremony  with  sincerity. 

**  John  Edward  Nandy,"  said  Mr.  Plornish,  addressing  the 
old  gentleman.  ^*  Sir.  It's  not  too  often  that  you  see  unpre- 
tending actions  without  a  spark  of  pride,  and  therefore  when 
you  see  them  give  grateful  honor  unto  the  same,  being  that 
if  you  don't  and  live  to  want  'em  it  follows  serve  you  right." 

To  which  Mr.  Nandy  replied  : 

"  I  am  heartily  of  your  opinion,  Thomas,  and  which  your 
opinion  is  the  same  as  mine,  and  therefore  no  more  words, 
and  not  being  backward  with  that  opinion,  which  opinion 
giving  it  as  yes,  Thomas,  yes,  is  the  opinion  in  which  your- 
self and  we  must  ever  be  unanimously  jined  by  all,  and  where 
there  is  not  difference  of  opinion  there  can  be  none  but  one 
opinion,  which  fully  no,  Thomas,  Thomas,  no  !  " 

Arthur,  with  less  formality,  expressed  himself  gratified  by 
their  high  appreciation  of  so  very  slight  an  attention  on  his 
part  ;  and  explained  as  to  the  tea  that  he  had  not  yet  dined, 
and  was  going  straight  home  to  refresh  after  a  long  day's 
labor,  or  he  would  have  readily  accepted  the  hospitable  offer. 
As  Mr.  Pancks  was  somewhat  noisily  getting  his  steam  up 
for  departure,  he  concluded  by  asking  that  gentleman  if  he 
would  walk  with  him  ?  Mr.  Pancks  said  he  desired  no  better 
engagement,  and  the  two  took  leave  of  Happy  Cottage. 

'*  If  you  will  come  home  with  me„  Pancks,"  said  Arthur, 
when  they  got  into  the  street,  ''  and  will  share  what  dinner 
or  supper  there  is,  it  will  be  next  door  to  an  act  of  charity  ; 
for  I  am  weary  and  out  of  sorts  to-night." 

"  Ask  me  to  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,"  said  Pancks, 
"  when  you  want  it  done,  and  I'll  do  it." 

Between  this  eccentric  personage  and  Clennam,  a  tacit 
understanding  and  accord  had  been  always  improving  since 


58o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mr.  Pancks  flew  over  Mr.  Rugg's  back  in  the  Marshalsea 
yard.  When  the  carriage  drove  away  on  the  memorable  day 
of  the  family's  departure,  these  two  had  looked  after  it  to- 
gether, and  had  walked  slowly  away  together.  When  the 
first  letter  came  from  Little  Dorrit,  nobody  was  more  inter- 
ested in  hearing  of  her  than  Mr.  Pancks.  The  second  letter, 
at  that  moment  in  Clennam's  breast-pocket,  particularly  re- 
membered him  by  name.  Though  he  had  never  before  made 
any  profession  or  protestation  to  Clennam,  and  though  what 
he  had  just  said  was  little  enough  as  to  the  words  in  which 
it  was  expressed,  Clennam  had  long  had  a  growing  belief 
that  Mr.  Pancks,  in  his  own  odd  way,  was  becoming  attached 
to  him.  All  these  strings  intertwining  made  Pancks  a  very 
cable  of  anchorage  that  night. 

"  I  am  quite  alone,"  Arthur  explained,  as  they  walked  on. 
"  My  partner  is  away,  busily  engaged  at  a  distance  on  his 
branch  of  our  business,  and  you  shall  do  just  as  you  like." 

*'  Thank  you.  You  didn't  take  particular  notice  of  little 
Altro  just  now  ;  did  you  ? "  said  Pancks. 

"No.     Why?" 

"He's  a  bright  fellow,  and  I  like  him,"  said  Pancks. 
"  Something  has  gone  amiss  with  him  to-day.  Have  you  any 
idea  of  any  cause  that  can  have  overset  him  ? " 

"  You  surprise  me  !     None  whatever." 

Mr.  Pancks  gave  his  reasons  for  the  inquiry.  Arthur  was 
quite  unprepared  for  them,  and  quite  unable  to  suggest  an 
explanation  of  them. 

"  Perhaps  you'll  ask  him,"  said  Pancks,  "  as  he*s  a 
stranger  ?  " 

**  Ask  him  what  ?"  returned  Clennam. 

"What  he  has  on  his  mind." 

"  I  ought  first  to  see  for  myself  that  he  has  something  on 
his  mind,  I  think,"  said  Clennam.  "  I  have  found  him  in 
every  way  so  diligent,  so  grateful  (for  little  enough),  and  so 
trustworthy,  that  it  might  look  like  suspecting  him.  And 
that  would  be  very  unjust." 

"  True,"  said  Pancks^  "  But,  I  say  !  You  oughtn't  to 
be  any  body's  proprietor,  Mr.  Clennam.  You're  much  too 
delicate." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,"  returned  Clennam,  laughing,  "  I 
have  not  a  large  proprietary  share  in  Cavalletto.  His  carving 
is  his  livelihood.  He  keeps  the  keys  of  the  factory,  watches 
it  every  alternate  night,  and  acts  as  a  sort  of  housekeeper  to 
it  generally  ;  but  we  have  little  work  in  the  way  of  his  in- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  581 

genuity,  though  we  give  him  what  we  have.  No  !  I  am 
rather  his  adviser  than  his  proprietor.  To  call  me  his 
standing  counsel  and  his  banker  would  be  nearer  the  fact 
Speaking  of  being  his  banker,  is  it  not  curious,  Pancks,  that 
the  ventures  which  run  just  now  in  some  people's  heads, 
should  run  even  in  little  Cavalletto's  ?  " 

"  Ventures  ? "  retorted  Pancks,  with  a  snort.  "  What 
ventures  ? " 

**  These  Merdle  enterprises." 

"  Oh  !  Investments,"  said  Pancks.  **  Ay  !  Ay  !  I  didn't 
know  you  were  speaking  of  investments." 

His  quick  way  of  replying  caused  Clennam  to  look  at  him 
with  a  doubt  whether  he  meant  more  than  he  said.  As  it 
was  accompanied,  however,  with  a  quickening  of  his  pace 
and  a  corresponding  increase  in  the  laboring  of  his  ma- 
chinery, Arthur  did  not  pursue  the  matter,  and  they  soon 
arrived  at  his  house. 

A  dinner  of  soup  and  pigeon-pie,  served  on  a  little  round 
table  before  the  fire,  and  flavored  with  a  bottle  of  good  wine 
oiled  Mr.  Pancks's  works  in  a  highly  effective  manner.  So 
that  when  Clennam  produced  his  Eastern  pipe,  and  handed 
Mr.  Pancks  another  Eastern  pipe,  the  latter  gentleman  was 
perfectly  comfortable. 

They  puffed  for  a  while  in  silence,  Mr.  Pancks  like  a 
steam-vessel  with  wind,  tide,  calm-water,  and  all  other  sea- 
going conditions,  in  her  favor.  He  was  the  first  to  speak, 
and  he  spoke  thus  : 

"  Yes.     Investments  is  the  word." 

Clennam,  with  his  former  look,  said  "  Ah  !  " 

**  I  am  going  back  to  it,  you  see,"  said  Pancks. 

*'  Yes.  I  see  you  are  going  back  to  it,"  returned  Clennam, 
wondering  why. 

"  Wasn't  it  a  curious  thing  that  they  should  run  in  little 
Altro's  head  ?  Eh  ?  "  said  Pancks  as  he  smoked.  "  Wasn't 
that  how  you  put  it  ?  " 

"  That  was  what  I  said." 

"  Ay  !  But  think  of  the  whole  yard  having  got  it.  Think 
of  their  all  meeting  me  with  it,  on  my  collecting  days,  here 
and  there  and  everywhere.  Whether  they  pay,  or  whether 
they  don't  pay.  Merdle,  Merdle,  Merdle.  Always  Mer- 
dle." 

"  Very  strange  how  these  runs  on  an  infatuation  prevail," 
said  Arthur. 

**  An't  it  ?  "said  Pancks.     After  smoking  for  a  minute  or 


582  LITTLE  DORRTr. 

so,  more  dryly  than  comported  with  his  recent  oiling,  he 
added:  "  Because  you  see  these  people  don't  understand  the 
subject." 

''  Not  a  bit,"  assented  Clennam. 

''  Not  a  bit,"  cried  Pancks.  ''  Know  nothing  of  figures. 
Know  nothing  of  money  questions.  Never  made  a  calcula- 
tion.    Never  worked  it,  sir  !  " 

*^  If  they  had "  Clennam  was  going  on  to  say  ;  when 

Mr.  Pancks,  without  change  of  countenance,  produced  a 
sound  so  far  surpassing  all  his  usual  efforts,  nasal  or  bron- 
chial, that  he  stopped. 

''  If  they  had  ?"  repeated  Pancks  in  an  inquiring  tone. 

''  I  thought  you — spoke,"  said  Arthur,  hesitating  what 
name  to  give  the  interruption. 

'^  Not  at  all,"  said  Pancks.  *'  Not  yet.  I  may  in  a  minute. 
If  they  had  ?  " 

^*  If  they  had,"  observed  Clennam,  who  was  a  little  at  a 
loss  how  to  take  his  friend,  "  why,  I  suppose  they  would 
have  known  better." 

"  How  so,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  "  Pancks  asked,  quickly,  and 
with  an  odd  effect  of  having  been  from  the  commencement  of 
the  conversation  loaded  with  the  heavy  charge  he  now  fired 
off.  ''  They're  right,  you  know.  They  don't  mean  to  be, 
but  they're  right." 

"  Right  in  sharing  Cavalletto's  inclination  to  speculate 
with  Mr.  Merdle  ?  " 

^*  Per-fectly,  sir,"  said  Pancks.  "  Tve  gone  into  it.  IVe 
made  the  calculations.  I've  worked  it.  They're  safe  and 
genuine."  Relieved  by  having  got  to  this,  Mr.  Pancks  took 
as  long  a  pull  as  his  lungs  would  permit  at  his  Eastern  pipe, 
and  looked  sagaciously  and  steadily  at  Clennam  while  inhal- " 
ing  and  exhaling  too. 

In  those  moments  Mr.Pancks  began  to  give  out  the  danger- 
ous infection  with  which  he  was  laden.  It  is  the  manner  of 
communicating  these  diseases  ;  it  is  the  subtle  way  in  which 
they  go  about. 

^'  Do  you  mean,  my  good  Pancks,"  asked  Clennam,  em- 
phatically, "  that  you  would  put  that  thousand  pounds  of 
yours,  let  us  say,  for  instance,  out  at  this  kind  of  interest  ?  " 

**  Certainly,"  said  Pancks.     "  Already  done  it,  sir." 

Mr.  Pancks  took  another  long  inhalation,  another  long  ex- 
halation, another  long  sagacious  look  at  Clennam. 

"  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Clennam,  I've  gone  into  it,"  said  Pancks. 
''  He's  a  man  of  immense  resources — enormous  capital — gov- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  583 

ernment  influence.  They're  the  best  schemes  afloat.  They're 
safe.     They're  certain." 

"  Well  !  "  returned  Clennam,  looking  first  at  him  gravely, 
and  then  at  the  fire  gravely.     "  You  surprise  me  !  " 

^'  Bah  !  "  Pancks  retorted.  '^  Don't  say  that,  sir.  It's 
what  you  ought  to  do  yourself.  Why  don't  you  do  as  I 
do  ?  " 

Of  whom  Mr.  Pancks  had  taken  the  prevalent  disease,  he 
could  no  more  have  told  than  if  he  had  unconsciously  taken 
a  fever.  Bred  at  first,  as  many  physical  diseases  are,  in  the 
wickedness  of  men,  and  then  disseminated  in  their  ignorance, 
these  epidemics,  after  a  period,  get  communicated  to  many 
sufferers  who  are  neither  ignorant  nor  wicked.  Mr.  Pancks 
might,  or  might  not,  have  caught  the  illness  himself  from  a 
subject  of  this  class  ;  but  in  this  category  he  appeared 
before  Clennam,  and  the  infection  he  threw  off  was  all  the 
more  virulent. 

"  And  you  have  really  invested,"  Clennam  had  already 
passed  to  that  word,  *^  your  thousand  pounds,  Pancks  ? " 

"  To  be  sure,  sir  !  "  replied  Pancks,  boldly,  with  a  puff  of 
smoke.     **  And  only  wish  it  ten  !  " 

Now,  Clennam  had  two  subjects  lying  heavy  on  his  lonely 
mind  that  night ;  the  one,  his  partner's  long  deferred  hope  ; 
the  other,  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  at  his  mother's.  In 
the  relief  of  having  this  companion,  and  of  feeling  that  he 
could  trust  him,  he  passed  on  to  both,  and  both  brought  him 
round  again,  with  an  increase  and  acceleration  of  force,  to 
his  point  of  departure. 

It  came  about  in  the  simplest  manner.  Quitting  the  in- 
vestment subject,  after  an  interval  of  silent  looking  at  the 
fire  through  the  smoke  of  his  pipe,  he  told  Pancks  how  and 
why  he  was  occupied  with  the  great  national  department. 
"  A  hard  case  it  has  been,  and  a  hard  case  it  is,  on  Doyce," 
he  finished  by  saying,  with  all  the  honest  feeling  the  topic 
roused  in  him. 

"Hard  indeed,"  Pancks  acquiesced.  "But  you  manage 
for  him,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Manage,  the  money  part  of  the  business  ?  ** 

"  Yes.    As  well  as  I  can." 

"  Manage  it  better,  sir,"  said  Pancks.  "  Recompense 
him  for  his  toils  and  disappointments.  Give  him  the  chances 
of  the  time.  He'll  never  benefit  himself  in  that  way,  patient 
and  pre-occupied  workman.     He  looks  to  you,  sir." 


584  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  I  do  my  best,  Pancks,*'  returned  Clennam,  uneasily. 
"  As  to  duly  weighing  and  considering  these  new  enterprises, 
of  which  I  have  had  no  experience,  I  doubt  if  I  am  fit  for  it. 
I  am  growing  old." 

*'  Growing  old  ?  "  cried  Pancks.     "  Ha,  ha  !  *' 

There  was  something  so  indubitably  genuine  in  the  wonder- 
ful laugh,  and  series  of  snorts  and  puffs,  engendered  in  Mr. 
Pancks's  astonishment  at,  and  utter  rejection  of,  the  idea, 
that  his  being  quite  in  earnest  could  not  be  questioned. 

"  Growing  old  ?  "  cried  Pancks.  "  Hear,  hear,  hear  !  Old  ? 
Hear  him,  hear  him  !  " 

The  positive  refusal  expressed  in  Mr.  Pancks's  continued 
snorts,  no  less  than  in  these  exclamations,  to  entertain  the 
sentiment  for  a  single  instant,  drove  Arthur  away  from  it. 
Indeed,  he  was  fearful  of  something  happening  to  Mr 
Pancks,  in  the  violent  conflict  that  took  place  between  the 
breath  he  jerked  out  of  himself  and  the  smoke  he  jerked 
into  himself.  This  abandonment  of  the  second  topic  threw 
him  on  the  third. 

"Young,  old,  or  middle-aged,  Pancks,"  he  said,  when 
there  was  a  favorable  pause,  "  I  am  in  a  very  anxious  and 
uncertain  state  ;  a  state  that  even  leads  me  to  doubt  whether 
any  thing  now  seeming  to  belong  to  me,  may  be  really  mine. 
Shall  I  tell  you  how  this  is  ?  Shall  I  put  a  great  trust  in 
you  ?  '* 

"You  shall,  sir,"  said  Pancks,  "  if  you  believe  me  worthy 
of  it." 

"I  do.*' 

"  You  may  !  '*  Mr.  Pancks's  short  and  sharp  rejoinder,  con- 
firmed by  the  sudden  outstretching  of  his  coaly  hand,  was 
most  expressive  and  convincing.  Arthur  shook  the  hand 
warmly. 

He  then,  softening  the  nature  of  his  old  apprehensions  as 
much  as  was  possible  consistently  with  their  being  made  in- 
telligible, and  never  alluding  to  his  mother  by  name,  but 
speaking  vaguely  of  a  relation  of  his,  confided  to  Mr.  Pancks 
a  broad  outline  of  the  misgivings  he  entertained,  and  of  the 
interview  he  had  witnessed.  Mr.  Pancks  listened  with  such 
interest  that  regardless  of  the  charms  of  the  Eastern  pipe,  he 
put  it  in  the  grate  among  the  fire-irons,  and  occupied  his 
hands  during  the  whole  recital  in  so  erecting  the  loops  and 
hooks  of  hair  all  over  his  head,  that  he  looked,  when  it  came 
to  a  conclusion,  like  a  journeyman  Hamlet  in  conversation 
with  his  father's  spirit. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  585 

"Brings  me  back,  sir,"  was  his  exclamation  then,  with  a 
startling  touch  on  Clennam's  knee,  '^  brings  me  back,  sir,  to 
the  investments  !  I  don't  say  any  thing  of  your  making  your- 
self poor,  to  repair  a  wrong  you  never  committed.  That's  you. 
A  man  must  be  himself.  But  I  say  this  :  Fearing  you  may 
want  money  to  save  your  own  blood  from  exposure  and  dis- 
grace— make  as  much  as  you  can  !  " 

Arthur  shook  his  head,  but  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  too. 

**  Be  as  rich  as  you  can,  sir,"  Pancks  adjured  him,  with  a 
powerful  concentration  of  all  his  energies  on  the  advice. 
"  Be  as  rich  as  you  honestly  can.  It's  your  duty.  Not  for 
your  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  others.  Take  time  by  the 
forelock.  Poor  Mr.  Doyce  (who  really  is  growing  old)  de- 
pends upon  you.  Your  relative  depends  upon  you.  You 
don't  know  what  depends  upon  you." 

"  Well,  well,  well  I  "  returned  Arthur.  "  Enough  for  to- 
night." 

"One  word  more,  Mr.  Clennam,'*  retorted  Pancks,  "and 
then  enough  for  to-night.  Why  should  you  leave  all 
the  gains  to  the  gluttons,  knaves  and  impostors }  Why 
should  you  leave  all  the  gains  that  are  to  be  got,  to  my  pro- 
prietor and  the  like  of  him  ?  Yet  you're  always  doing  it 
When  I  say  you,  I  mean  such  men  as  you.  You  know  you 
are.  Why,  I  see  it  every  day  of  my  life.  I  see  nothing  else. 
It's  my  business  to  see  it.  Therefore  I  say,"  urged  Pancks, 
"  go  in  and  win  !  '* 

"  But  what  of  go  in  and  lose  ?  "  said  Arthur. 

"  Can't  be  done,  sir,"  returned  Pancks.  "  I  have  looked 
into  it.  Name  up  everywhere — immense  resources — enor- 
mous capital — great  position — high  connection — government 
influence.     Can't  be  done  !  "     ' 

Gradually,  after  this  closing  exposition,  Mr.  Pancks  sub- 
sided ;  allowed  his  hair  to  droop  as  much  as  it  ever  would 
droop  on  the  utmost  persuasion  ;  reclaimed  the  pipe  from 
the  fire-irons,  filled  it  anew,  and  smoked  it  out.  They  said 
little  more  ;  but  were  company  to  one  another  in  silently 
pursuing  the  same  subjects,  and  did  not  part  until  midnight. 
On  taking  his  leave,  Mr.  Pancks,  when  he  had  shaken  hands 
with  Clennam,  worked  completely  round  him  before  he 
steamed  out  at  the  door.  This,  Arthur  received  as  an  assur- 
ance that  he  might  implicitly  rely  on  Pancks,  if  he  ever  should 
come  to  need  assistance  ;  either  in  any  of  the  matters  of 
which  they  had  spoken  that  night,  or  any  other  subject  that 
could  in  any  way  affect  himself. 


586  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

At  intervals  all  next  day,  and  even  while  his  attention  was 
fixed  on  other  things,  he  thought  of  Mr.  Pancks's  investment 
of  his  thousand  pounds,  and  of  his  having  ''  looked  into  it." 
He  thought  of  Mr.  Pancks's  being  so  sanguine  in  this  matter, 
and  of  his  not  being  usually  of  a  sanguine  character.  He 
thought  of  the  great  national  department,  and  of  the  delight 
it  would  be  to  him  to  see  Doyce  better  off.  He  thought  of 
the  darkly  threatening  place  that  went  by  the  name  of  home 
in  his  remembrance,  and  of  the  gathering  shadows  which 
made  it  yet  more  darkly  threatening  than  of  old.  He  ob- 
served anew  that  wherever  he  went,  he  saw,  or  heard,  or 
touched,  the  celebrated  name  of  Merdle  ;  he  found  it  diffi- 
cult even  to  remain  at  his  desk  a  couple  of  hours  without 
having  it  presented  to  one  of  his  bodily  senses  through  some 
agency  or  other.  He  began  to  think  it  was  curious,  too,  that 
it  should  be  everywhere,  and  that  nobody  but  he  should  seem 
to  have  any  mistrust  of  it.  Though,  indeed,  he  began  to  re- 
member, when  he  got  to  this,  even  he  did  not  mistrust  it  ;  he 
had  only  happened  to  keep  a^'loof  from  it. 

Such  symptoms,  when  a  disease  of  the  kind  is  rife,  are 
signs  of  sickening. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TAKING    ADVICE. 

When  it  became  known  to  the  Britons  on  the  shore  of  the 
yellow  Tiber  that  their  intelligent  compatriot,  Mr.  Sparkler, 
was  made  one  of  the  lords  of  their  circumlocution  office,  they 
took  it  as  a  piece  of  news  with  which  they  had  no  nearer 
concern  than  with  any  other  piece  of  news — any  other  acci- 
dent or  offense — in  the  English  papers.  Some  laughed  ; 
some  said,  by  way  of  complete  excuse,  that  the  post  was  vir- 
tually a  sinecure,  and  any  fool  who  could  spell  his  name  was 
good  enough  for  it ;  some,  and  these  were  the  more  solemn 
political  oracles,  said  that  Decimus  did  wisely  to  strengthen 
himself,  and  that  the  sole  constitutional  purpose  of  all  places 
within  the  gift  of  Decimus  was,  that  Decimus  should 
strengthen  himself.  A  few  bilious  Britons  there  were  who 
would  not  subscribe  to  this  article  of  faith  ;  but  their  objec- 
tion was  purely  theoretical.  In  a  practical  point  of  view, 
they  listlessly  abandoned  the  matter,  as  being  the  business 
of  sortie  other  Britons  unknown,   somewhere,  or  nowhere. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  587 

In  like  manner,  at  home,  great  numbers  of  Britons  main- 
tained, for  as  long  as  four-and-twenty  consecutive  hours, 
that  those  invisible  anonymous  Britons  '*  ought  to  take  it 
up  ;  *'  and  that  if  they  quietly  acquiesced  in  it,  they  deserved 
it.  But  of  what  class  the  remiss  Britons  were  composed, 
and  where  the  unlucky  creatures  hid  themselves,  and  why 
they  hid  themselves,  and  how  it  constantly  happened  that 
they  neglected  their  interests,  when  so  many  other  Britons 
were  quite  at  a  loss  to  account  for  their  not  looking  after 
those  interests,  was  not,  either  upon  the  shore  of  the  yellow 
Tiber  or  the  shore  of  the  black  Thames,  made  apparent  to 
men. 

Mrs.  Merdle  circulated  the  news,  as  she  received  congrat- 
alations  on  it,  with  a  careless  grace  that  displayed  it  to 
advantage,  as  the  setting  displays  the  jewel.  Yes,  she  said, 
Edmund  had  taken  the  place.  Mr.  Merdle  wished  him  to 
take  it,  and  he  had  taken  it.  She  hoped  Edmund  might 
not  like  it,  but  really  she  didn't  know.  It  would  keep  him 
in  town  a  good  deal,  and  he  preferred  the  country.  Still  it 
was  not  a  disagreeable  position — and  it  was  a  position. 
There  was  no  denying  that  the  thing  was  a  compliment  to  Mr. 
Merdle,  and  was  not  a  bad  thing  for  Edmund  if  he  liked  it. 
It  was  just  as  well  that  he  should  have  something  to  do,  and 
it  was  just  as  well  that  he  should  have  something  for  doing  it 
Whether  it  would  be  more  agreeable  to  Edmund  than  the 
army,  remained  to  be  seen. 

Thus  the  bosom;  accomplished  in  the  art  of  seeming  to 
make  things  of  small  account,  and  really  enhancing  them  in 
the  process.  While  Henry  Gowan,  whom  Decimus  had 
thrown  away,  went  through  the  whole  round  of  his  acquaint- 
ance between  the  Gate  of  the  People  and  the  town  of 
Albano,  vowing,  almost  (but  not  quite)  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  that  Sparkler  was  the  sweetest-tempered,  simplest- 
hearted,  altogether  most  lovable  jackass  that  ever  grazed  on 
the  public  common;  and  that  only  one  circumstance  could 
have  delighted  him  (Gowan)  more,  than  his  (the  beloved 
jackass's)  getting  this  post,  and  that  would  have  been  his 
(Gowan's)  getting  it  himself.  He  said,  it  was  the  very  thing 
for  Sparkler.  There  was  nothing  to  do,  and  he  would  do  it 
charmingly;  there  was  a  handsome  salary  to  draw,  and  he 
would  draw  it  charmingly;  it  was  a  delightful,  appropriate, 
capital  appointment;  and  he  almost  forgave  the  donor  his 
slight  of  himself,  in  his  joy  that  the  dear  donkey  for  whom  he 
had  so  great  an  affection   was   so  admirably  stabled.     Nor 


588  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

did  his  benevolence  stop  here.  He  took  pains  on  all  social 
occasions,  to  draw  Mr.  Sparkler  out,  and  make  him  con- 
spicuous before  the  company;  and  although  the  considerate 
action  always  resulted  in  that  young  gentleman's  making  a 
dreary  and  forlorn  mental  spectacle  of  himself,  the  friendly 
intention  was  not  to  be  doubted. 

Unless,  indeed,  it  chanced  to  be  doubted  by  the  object  of 
Mr.  Sparkler's  affections.  Miss  Fanny  was  now  in  the  diffi- 
cult situation  of  being  universally  known  in  that  light,  and 
of  not  having  dismissed  Mr.  Sparkler,  however  capriciously 
she  used  him„  Hence,  she  was  sufficiently  identified  with 
the  gentleman  to  feel  compromised  by  his  being  more  than 
usually  ridiculous  ;  and  hence,  being  by  no  means  deficient 
in  quickness,  she  sometimes  came  to  his  rescue  against 
Gowan,  and  did  him  very  good  service.  But,  while  doing 
this,  she  was  ashamed  of  him,  undetermined  whether  to  get 
rid  of  him  or  more  decidedly  encourage  him,  distracted  with 
apprehensions  that  she  was  every  day  becoming  more  and 
more  immeshed  in  her  uncertainties,  and  tortured  by  mis- 
givings that  Mrs.  Merdle  triunipfied  in  her  distress.  With 
this  tumult  in  her  mind,  it  is  no  subject  for  surprise  that 
Miss  Fanny  came  home  one  night  in  a  state  of  agitation  from 
a  concert  and  ball  at  Mrs.  Merdle's  house,  and  on  her  sister 
affectionately  trying  to  soothe  her,  pushed  that  sister  away 
from  the  toilet-table  at  which  she  sat  angrily  trying  to  cry, 
and  declared  with  a  heaving  bosom  that  she  detested  every 
body,  and  she  wished  she  was  dead. 

"  Dear  Fanny,  what  is  the  matter  ?     Tell  me." 

*'  Matter,  you  little  mole,"  said  Fanny.  "  If  you  were  not 
the  blindest  of  the  blind,  you  would  have  no  occasion  to  ask 
me.  The  idea  of  daring  to  pretend  to  assert  that  you  have 
eyes  in  your  head,  and  yet  ask  me  what's  the  matter  !  " 

''  Is  it  Mr.  Sparkler,  dear  ?  " 

*'  Mis-ter  Spark-ler  !  "  repeated  Fanny,  with  unbounded 
scorn,  as  if  he  were  the  last  subject  in  the  solar  system  that 
could  possibly  be  near  her  mind.     "  No,  Miss  Bat,  it  is  not." 

Immediately  afterward,  she  became  remorseful  for  having 
called  her  sister  names  ;  declaring  with  sobs  that  she 
knew  she  made  herself  hateful,  but  that  every  body  drove 
her  to  it. 

'^  I  don't  think  you  are  well  to-night,  dear  Fanny." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  replied  the  young  lady,  turning 
angry  again;  ''  I  am  as  well  as  you  are.  Perhaps  I  ?night 
say  better,  and  yet  make  no  boast  of  it." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  589 

Poor  Little  Dorrit  not  seeing  her  way  to  the  offering  of 
any  soothing  words  that  would  escape  repudiation,  deemed 
it  best  to  remain  quiet.  At  first,  Fanny  took  this  ill,  too  ; 
protesting  to  her  looking-glass,  that  of  all  the  trying  sisters  a 
girl  could  have,  she  did  think  the  most  trying  sister  was  a 
fiat  sister.  That  she  knew  she  was  at  times  a  wretched 
temper  ;  that  she  knew  she  made  herself  hateful  ;  that  when 
she  made  herself  hateful,  nothing  would  do  her  half  the  good 
as  being  told  so  ;  but  that,  being  af^icted  with  a  flat  sister, 
she  never  was  told  so,  and  the  consequence  resulted  that  she 
was  absolutely  tempted  and  goaded  into  making  herself  dis- 
agreeable. Besides  (she  angrily  told  her  looking-glass),  she 
didn't  want  to  be  forgiven.  It  was  not  a  right  example,  that 
she  should  be  constantly  stooping  to  be  forgiven  by  a 
younger  sister.  And  this  was  the  art  of  it — that  she  was 
always  being  placed  in  the  position  of  being  forgiven, 
whether  she  liked  it  or  not.  Finally  she  burst  into  violent 
weeping,  and,  when  her  sister  came  and  sat  close  at  her  side 
to  comfort  her,  said,  "  Amy,  you're  an  angel  !'* 

"But,  I  tell  you  what,  my  pet,"  said  Fanny,  when  her 
sister's  gentleness  had  calmed  her,  ^'  it  now  comes  to  this  ; 
that  things  can  not  and  shall  not  go  on  as  they  are  at  present 
going  on,  and  that  there  must  be  an  end  of  this,  one  way  or 
other." 

As  the  little  announcement  was  vague,  though  very  per- 
emptory. Little  Dorrit  returned,  "  Let  us  talk  about  it." 

"  Quite  so,  my   dear,"  assented  Fanny,  as  she   dried  her 

eyes.     *^  Let  us  talk  about  it.     I  am  rational  again  now,  and 

you  shall  advise  me.      Will  you  advise  me,  my  sweet  child  ?" 

Even  Amy  smiled  at  the  notion,  but  she  said,   ''  I  will, 

Fanny,  as  well  as  I  can." 

"  Thank  you,  dearest  Amy,"  returned  Fanny,  kissing  her. 
"  You  are  my  anchor." 

Having  embraced  her  anchor  with  great  affection,  Fanny 
took  a  bottle  of  sweet  toilet  water  from  the  table,  and 
called  to  her  maid  for  a  fine  handkerchief.  She  then  dis- 
missed that  attendant  for  the  night,  and  went  on  to  be  ad- 
vised ;  dabbing  her  eyes  and  forehead  from  time  to  time,  to 
cool  them. 

"  My  love,"  Fanny  began,  "our  characters  and  points  of 
view  are  sufficiently  different  (kiss  me  again,  my  darling), 
to  make  it  very  probable  that  I  shall  surprise  you  by  what  I 
am  going  to  say.  What  I  am  going  to  say,  my  dear,  is,  that 
notwithstanding  our  property,  we  labor,  socially  speaking, 


590  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

under  disadvantages.     You  don*t  quite  understand  what  I 
mean,  Amy  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall,"  said  Amy,  mildly,  "after  a  few 
words  more." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  v/hat  I  mean  is,  that  we  are,  after  all,  new- 
comers into  fashionable  life." 

**  I  am  sure,  Fanny,"  Little  Dorrit  interposed  in  her  zeal- 
ous admiration,  "  no  one  need  find  that  out  in  you." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  perhaps  not,"  said  Fanny,  "  though 
it's  most  kind  and  most  affectionate  in  you,  you  precious 
girl,  to  say  so."  Here  she  dabbed  her  sister's  forehead,  and 
blew  upon  it  a  little.  **  But,  you  are,"  resumed  Fanny,  **  as 
is  well  known,  the  dearest  little  thing  that  ever  was  !  To 
resume,  my  child.  Pa  is  extremely  gentlemanly  and  ex- 
tremely well  informed,  but  he  is,  in  some  trifling  respects,  a 
little  different  from  other  gentlemen  of  his  fortune  ;  partly 
on  account  of  what  he  has  gone  through,  poor  dear  ;  partly,  I 
fancy,  on  account  of  its  often  running  in  his  mind  that  other 
people  are  thinking  about  that,  while  he  is  talking  to  them. 
Uncle,  my  love,  is  altogether  unpresentable.  Though  a  dear 
creature  to  whom  I  am  tenderly  attached,  he  is,  socially 
speaking,  shocking.  Edward  is  frightfully  expensive  and 
dissipated.  I  don't  mean  that  there  is  any  thing  ungente(d 
in  that  itself — far  from  it — but  I  do  mean  that  he  doesn't 
do  it  well,  and  that  he  doesn't,  if  I  may  so  express  myself, 
get  the  money's  worth  in  the  sort  of  dissipated  reputation 
that  attaches  to  him." 

"  Poor  Edward  !"  sighed  Little  Dorrit,  with  the  whole 
family  history  in  the  sigh. 

"  Yes.  And  poor  you  and  me,  too,'*  returned  Fanny, 
rather  sharply.  "  Very  true  !  Then,  my  dear,  we  have  no 
mother,  and  we  have  a  Mrs.  General.  And  I  tell  you  again, 
darling,  that  Mrs.  General,  if  I  may  reverse  a  common 
proverb  and  adapt  it  to  her,  is  a  cat  in  gloves  who  7^'/// catch 
mice.  That  woman,  I  am  quite  sure  and  confident,  will  he 
our  mother-in-law." 

"  I  can  hardly  think,  Fanny "  Fanny  stopped  her. 

"Now,  don't  argue  with  me  about  it.  Amy,"  said  she, 
"because  I  know  better."  Feeling  that  she  had  been  sharp 
again,  she  dabbed  her  sister's  forehead  again,  and  blew  upon 
it  again.  "  To  resume  once  more,  my  dear.  It  then  be 
comes  a  question  with  me  (I  am  proud  and  spirited.  Amy, 
as  you  very  well  know  :  too  much  so,  I  dare  say)  whether  I 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  591 

shall  make  up  my  mind  to  take  it  upon  myself    to  carry  the 
family  through." 

**  How  ?  "  asked  her  sister,  anxiously. 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Fanny,  without  answering  the  question, 
"  submit  to  be  mother-in-lawed  by  Mrs.  General  ;  and  I  will 
not  submit  to  be,  in  any  respect  whatever,  either  patronized 
or  tormented  by  Mrs.  Merdle." 

Little  Dorrit  laid  her  hand  upon  the  hand  that  held  the 
bottle  of  sweet  water,  with  a  still  more  anxious  look.  Fanny, 
quite  punishing  her  own  forehead  with  the  vehement  dabs 
she  now  began  to  give  it,  fitfully  went  on. 

"  That  he  has  somehow  or  other,  and  how,  it  is  of  no  con- 
sequence, attained  a  very  good  position,  no  one  can  deny. 
That  it  is  a  very  good  connection,  no  one  can  deny.  And 
as  to  the  question  of  clever  or  not  clever,  I  doubt  very  much 
whether  a  clever  husband  would  be  suitable  to  me.  I 
can  not  submit.  I  should  not  be  able  to  defer  to  him 
enough." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Fanny  !  *'  expostulated  Little  Dorrit,  upon 
whom  a  kind  of  terror  had  been  stealing  as  she  perceived 
what  her  sister  meant.  "  If  you  loved  any  one,  all  this  feel- 
ing would  change.  If  you  loved  any  one,  you  would  no 
more  be  yourself,  but  you  would  quite  lose  and  forget  your- 
self in  your  devotion  to  him.     If  you  loved  him,  Fanny " 

Fanny  had  stopped^the  dabbing  hand,  and  was  looking   at 
her,  fixedly. 

''  Oh,  indeed  !  "  cried  Fanny.  "  Really  ?  Bless  me, 
how  much  some  people  know  of  some  subjects  !  They 
say  every  one  has  a  subject,  and  I  certainly  seem  to  have 
hit  upon  yours.  Amy.  There,  you  little  thing,  I  was  only 
in  fun,"  dabbing  her  sister's  forehead  ;  "  but,  don't  you  be 
a  silly  puss,  and  don't  you  think  flightily  and  eloquently 
about  degenerate  impossibilities.  There  !  Now,  I'll  go 
back  to  myself." 

"  Dear  Fanny,  let  me  say  first,  that  I  would  far  rather  we 
worked  for  a  scanty  living  again,  than  I  would  see  you  rich 
and  married  to  Mr.  Sparkler." 

"  Let  you  say,  my  dear  ? "  retorted  Fanny.  "  Why  of 
course,  I  will  let  you  say  any  thing.  There  is  no  con- 
straint upon  you,  I  hope.  We  are  together  to  talk  it  over. 
And  as  to  marrying  Mr.  Sparkler,  I  have  not  the  least 
intention  of  doing  so  to-night,  my  dear,  or  to-morrow  morn- 
ing either." 

'*  But  at  some  time  ?  " 


592 


LITTLE  DORRIT. 


**  At  no  time,  for  any  thing  I  know  at  present,"  answered 
Fanny,  with  indifference.  Then  suddenly  changing  her  in- 
difference into  a  burning  restlessness,  she  added,  "  You  talk 
about  the  clever  men,  you  little  thing  !  It's  all  very  fine 
and  easy  to  talk  about  the  clever  men  ;  but  where  are  they  ? 
/  don't  see  them  anywhere  near  me  I  " 

"  My  dear  Fanny,  so  short  a  time '* 

"  Short  time  or  long  time,"  interrupted  Fanny.  "  I  am 
impatient  of  our  situation.  I  don't  like  our  situation, 
and  very  little  would  induce  me  to  change  it.  Other 
girls,  differently  reared  and  differently  circumstanced 
altogether,  might  wonder  at  what  I  say  or  may  do.  Let 
them.  They  are  driven  by  their  lives  and  characters  ;  I  am 
driven  by  mine." 

"  Fanny,  my  dear  Fanny,  you  know  that  you  have  qual- 
ities to  make  you  the  wife  of  one  very  superior  to  Mr. 
Sparkler." 

*^  Amy,  my  dear  Amy,"  retorted  Fanny,  parodying  her 
words,^*  I  know  that  I  wish  to  have  a  more  defined  and  dis- 
tinct position,  in  which  I  can  assert  myself  with  greater 
effect  against  that  insolent  woman." 

"  Would  you  therefore — forgive  my  asking,  Fanny — there- 
fore marry  her  son  ?  " 

"  Why,  perhaps,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  triumphant  smile. 
"  There  may  be  many  less  promising  ways  of  arriving  at  an 
end  than  that,  my  dear.  That  piece  of  insolence  may  think, 
now,  that  it  would  be  a  great  success  to  get  her  son  off  upon 
me,  and  shelve  me.  But,  perhaps  she  little  thinks  how  I 
would  retort  upon  her  if  I  married  her  son.  I  would  oppose 
her  in  every  thing,  and  compete  with  her.  I  would  make  it 
the  business  of  my  life," 

Fanny  set  down  the  bottle  when  she  came  to  this,  and 
walked  about  the  room  ;  always  stopping  and  standing  still 
while  she  spoke. 

**  One  thing  I  could  certainly  do,  my  child  ;  I  could  make 
her  older.     And  I  would  !  " 

This  was  followed  by  another  walk. 

"  I  would  talk  of  her  as  an  old  woman.  I  would  pretend 
to  know — if  I  didn't,  but  I  should  from  her  son — all  about  her 
age.  And  she  should  hear  me  say.  Amy;  affectionately,  quite 
dutifully  and  affectionately  ;  how  well  she  looked,  considering 
her  time  of  life.  I  could  make  her  seem  older,  at  once,  by  be- 
ing myself  so  mucli  younger.  I  may  not  be  as  handsome  as 
she  is  ;  I  am  not  a  fair  judge  of  that  question,  I  suppose  ;  but 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  593 

1  know  I  am  handsome  enough  to  be  a  thorn  in  her  side. 
And  I  would  be  !  " 

"  My  dear  sister,  would  you  condemn  yourself  to  an  un- 
happy life  for  this  ? " 

"  It  wouldn't  be  an  unhappy  life,  Amy.  It  would  be  the 
life  I  am  fitted  for.  Whether  by  disposition,  or  whether  by 
circumstances,  is  no  matter  ;  I  am  better  fitted  for  such  a  life 
than  for  almost  any  other." 

There  was  something  of  a  desolate  tone  in  those  words  ; 
but,  with  a  short,  proud  laugh  she  took  another  walk,  and 
after  passing  a  great  looking-glass  came  to  another  stop. 

'^  Figure  !  Figure,  Amy  !  Well.  The  woman  has  a 
good  figure.  I  will  give  her  her  due,  and  not  deny  it. 
But,  is  it  so  far  beyond  all  others  that  it  is  altogether 
unapproachable  ?  Upon  my  word,  I  am  not  so  sure  of  it. 
Give  some  much  younger  woman  the  latitude  as  to  dress 
that  she  has,  being  married,  and  we  should  see  about  that, 
my  dear  !  " 

Something  in  the  thought  that  was  agreeable  and 
flattering,  brought  her  back  to  her  seat  in  a  gayer  temper. 
She  took  her  sister's  hands  in  hers,  |-nd  clapped  all  four 
hands  above  her  head  as  she  looked  in  her  sister's  face 
laughing  : 

^'  And  the  dancer.  Amy,  that  she  has  quite  forgotten — the 
dancer  w^ho  bore  no  sort  of  resemblance  to  me,  and  of  whom 
I  never  remind  her,  oh  dear  no  ! — should  dance  through  her 
life,  and  dance  in  her  way,  to  such  a  tune  as  would  disturb 
her  insolent  placidity  a  little.  Just  a  little,  my  dear  Amy, 
just  a  little  1" 

Meeting  an  earnest  and  imploring  look  in  Amy's  face,  she 
brought  the  four  hands  down,  and  laid  only  one  on  Amy's 
lips. 

*'  Now,  don't  argue  with  me,  child,"  she  said  in  a  sterner 
way,  *'  because  it  is  of  no  use.  I  understand  these  subjects 
much  better  than  you  do.  I  have  not  nearly  made  up  my 
mind,  but  it  may  be.  Now  we  have  talked  this  over  com- 
fortably, and  may  go  to  bed.  You  best  and  dearest  little 
mouse,  good-night  !  "  With  those  words  Fanny  weighed  her 
anchor,  and — having  taken  so  much  advice — left  off  being 
advised  for  that  occasion. 

Thenceforward,  Amy  observed  Mr.  Sparkler's  treatment 
by  his  enslaver,  with  new  reasons  for  attaching  importance  to 
all  that  passed  between  them.  There  were  times  when 
Fanny  appeared  quite  unable  to  endure  his  mental  feebleness, 


594  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  when  she  became  so  sharply  impatient  of  that  it  she  would 
all  but  dismiss  him  for  good.  There  were  other  times  when 
she  got  on  much  better  with  him;  when  he  amused  her,  and 
when  her  sense  of  superiority  seemed  to  counterbalance 
that  opposite  side  of  the  scale.  If  Mr.  Sparkler  had  been 
other  than  the  faithfulest  and  most  submissive  of  swains,  he 
was  sufficiently  hard-pressed  to  have  fled  from  the  scene 
of  his  trials,  and  have  set  at  least  the  whole  distance  from 
Rome  to  London  between  himself  and  his  enchantress. 
But  he  had  no  greater  will  of  his  own  than  a  boat  has  when 
it  is  towed  by  a  steamship  ;  and  he  follow^ed  his  cruel 
mistress  through  rough  and  smooth,  on  equally  strong 
compulsion. 

Mrs.  Merdle,  during  these  passages,  said  little  to  Fanny, 
but  said  more  about  her.  She  was  as  it  were  forced  to  look 
at  her  through  her  eye-glass,  and  in  general  conversation  to 
allow  commendations  of  her  beauty  to  be  wrung  from  her  by 
its  irresistible  demands.  The  defiant  character  it  assumed 
when  Fanny  heard  these  extollings  (as  it  generally  happened 
that  she  did),  was  not  expressive  of  concessions  to  the  im- 
partial bosom  ;  but  thg  utmost  revenge  the  bosom  took  was 
to  say  audibly,  *^  a  spoiled  beauty — but  with  that  face  and 
shape,  who  could  wonder  ?  " 

It  might  have  been  about  a  month  or  six  weeks  after  the 
night  of  the  advice,  when  Little  Dorrit  began  to  think  she 
detected  some  new  understanding  between  Mr.  Sparkler 
and  Fanny.  Mr.  Sparkler,  as  if  in  adherence  to  some  com- 
pact, scarcely  ever  spoke  without  first  looking  toward  Fanny 
for  leave.  That  young  lady  was  too  discreet  ever  to  look 
back  again  ;  but  if  Mr.  Sparkler  had  permission  to  speak, 
she  remained  silent  ;  if  he  had  not,  she  herself  spoke. 
Moreover,  it  became  plain  whenever  Henry  Gowan 
attempted  to  perform  the  friendly  office  of  drawing  him 
out,  that  he  was  not  to  be  drawn.  And  not  only  that,  but 
Fanny  would  presently,  without  any  pointed  application  in 
the  world,  chance  to  say  something  with  such  a  sting  in  it, 
that  Gowan  would  draw  back  as  if  he  had  put  his  hand  into 
a  bee-hive. 

There  was  yet  another  circumstance  which  went  a  long  way 
to  confirm  Little  Dorrit  in  her  fears,  though  it  was  not  a  great 
circumstance  in  itself.  Mr.  Sparkler's  demeanor  toward  her- 
self, changed.  It  became  fraternal.  Sometimes  when  she 
was  in  the  outer  circle  of  assemblies — at  their  own  residence, 
at  Mrs.  Merdle's  or  elsewhere — she  would  find  herself  stealth- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  595 

ily  supported  round  the  waist  by  Mr.  Sparkler's  arm.  Mr. 
Sparkler  never  offered  the  slightest  explanation  of  this  atten- 
tion; but  merely  smiled  with  an  air  of  blundering,  contented, 
good-natured  proprietorship,  which,  in  so  heavy  a  gentle- 
man, was  ominously  expressive. 

Little  Dorrit  was  at  home  one  day,  thinking  about  Fanny 
with  a  heavy  heart.  They  had  a  room  at  one  end  of  their 
drawing-room  suite,  nearly  all  irregular  bay-window,  project- 
ing over  the  street,  and  commanding  all  the  picturesque 
life  and  variety  of  the  Corso,  both  up  and  down.  At  three 
or  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  English  time,  the  view  from 
this  window  was  very  bright  and  peculiar  ;  and  Little  Dorrit 
used  to  sit  and  muse  here,  much  as  she  had  been  used  to 
while  away  the  time  in  her  balcony  at  Venice  Seated  thus 
one  day,  she  was  softly  touched  on  the  shoulder,  and  Fanny 
said,  "  Well,  Amy  dear,"  and  took  her  seat  at  her  side. 
Their  seat  was  a  part  of  the  window  ;  when  there  was 
any  thing  in  the  way  of  a  procession  going  on,  they  used  to 
have  bright  draperies  hung  out  at  the  window,  and  used  to 
kneel  or  sit  on  this  seat,  and  look  out  at  it,  leaning  on  the 
brilliant  color.  But  there  was  no  procession  that  day,  and 
Little  Dorrit  was  rather  surprised  by  Fanny's  being  at  home 
at  that  hour,  as  she  was  generally  out  on  horseback 
then. 

^'  Well,  Amy,"  said  Fanny.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of,  lit- 
tle one  ?" 

*'  I  was  thinking  of  you,  Fanny." 

*'  No  ?  What  a  coincidence  !  I  declare  here's  some  one 
else.  You  were  not  thinking  of  this  some  one  else  too;  were 
you,  Amy  ? " 

Amy  had  been  thinking  of  this  some  one  else  too  ;  for,  it 
was  Mr.  Sparkler.  She  did  not  say  so,  however,  as  she  gave 
him  her  hand.  Mr.  Sparkler  came  and  sat  down  on  the 
other  side  of  her,  and  she  felt  the  fraternal  railing  come 
behind  her,  and  apparently  stretch  on  to  include  Fanny. 

"  Well,  my  little  sister,"  said  Fanny  with  a  sigh,  "  I  sup- 
pose you  know  what  this  means  !  " 

*'  She's  as  beautiful  as  she's  doated  on,"  stammered  Mr. 
Sparkler — ^'  and  there's  no  nonsense  about  her — it's  ar- 
ranged  " 

"  You  needn't  explain,  Edmund,"  said  Fanny. 

''  No,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler. 

"  In  short,  pet,"  proceeded  Fanny,  "  on  the  whole,  we  are 
engaged.     We  must  tell  papa  about  it,  either  to-night  or  to- 


596  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

morrow,  according  to  the  opportunities.  Then  it's  done,  and 
very  little  more  need  be  said." 

"  My  dear  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  with  deference^  "  I 
should  like  to  say  a  word  to  Amy." 

"Well,  well!  Say  it,  for  goodness  sake,"  returned  the 
young  lady. 

"  I  am  convinced,  my  dear  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  **  that 
if  ever  there  was  a  girl,  next  to  your  highly  endowed,  and 
beautiful  sister,  who  had  no  nonsense  about  her " 

*'  We  know  all  about  that,  Edmund,"  interposed  Miss 
Fanny.  "  Never  mind  that.  Pray  go  on  to  something  else 
besides  our  having  no  nonsense  about  us." 

*^  Yes,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler.  '^And  I  assure  you, 
Amy,  that  nothing  can  be  a  greater  happiness  to  myself, 
myself — next  to  the  happiness  of  being  so  highly  honored 
with  the  choice  of  a  glorious  girl  who  hasn't  an  atom  of " 

"  Pray,  Edmund,  pray  !  ''  interrupted  Fanny,  with  a  slight 
pat  of  her  pretty  foot  upon  the  floor. 

*'  My  love,  you're  quite  right,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  "and  I 
know  I  have  a  habit  of  it.  What  I  wished  to  declare  was, 
that  nothing  can  be  a  greater  happiness  to  myself,  myself-— 
next  to  the  happiness  of  being  united  to  pre-eminently  the 
most  glorious  of  girls — than  to  have  the  happiness  of  culti- 
vating the  affectionate  acquaintance  of  Amy.  I  may  not  my- 
self," said  Mr.  Sparkler,  manfully,  "  be  up  to  the  mark  on 
some  other  subjects  at  a  short  notice,  and  I  am  aware  that  if 
you  were  to  poll  society,  the  general  opinion  would  be  that  I 
am  not  ;  but  on  the  subject  of  Amy,  I  am  up  to  the  mark  !  " 

Mr.  Sparkler  kissed  her,  in  witness  thereof.    ^ 

"  A  knife  and  fork  and  an  apartment,"  proceeded  Mr. 
Sparkler,  growing,  in  comparison  with  his  oratorical  antece- 
dents, quite  diffuse,  "  will  ever  be  at  Amy's  disposal.  My 
governor,  I  am  sure,  will  always  be  proud  to  entertain  one 
whom  I  so  much  esteem.  And  regarding  my  mother," 
said  Mr.  Sparkler,  "  who  is  a  remarkably  fme  woman, 
with " 

"  Edmund,  Edmund  !  "  cried  Miss  Fanny,  as  before. 

"  With  submission,  my  soul  !  "  pleaded  Mr.  Sparkler.  "  I 
know  I  have  a  habit  of  it,  and  I  thank  you  very  much,  my 
adorable  girl,  for  taking  the.  trouble  to  correct  it  ;  but  my 
mother  is  admitted  on  all  sides  to  be  a  remarkably  fine 
women  and  she  really  hasn't  any." 

"  That  may  be,  or  may  not  be,"  returned  Fanny,  "but 
pray  don't  mention  it  any  more." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  597 

'*  I  will  not,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler. 

"  Then,  in  fact,  you  have  nothing  more  to  say,  Edmund, 
have  you  ?"  inquired  Fanny. 

''  So  far  from  it,  my  adorable  girl,"  answered  Mr.  Sparkler, 
"  I  apologize  for  having  said  so  much." 

Mr.  Sparkler  perceived,  by  a  kind  of  inspiration,  that  the 
question  implied  had  he  not  better  go  ?  He  therefore  with- 
drew the  fraternal  railing,  and  neatly  said  that  he  thought 
he  would,  with  submission,  take  his  leave.  He  did  not  go 
without  being  congratulated  by  Amy,  as  well  as  she  could 
discharge  that  office  in  the  flutter  and  distress  of  her  spirits. 

When  he  was  gone,  she  said,  ^'  Oh  Fanny,  Fanny  !  "  and 
turned  to  her  sister  in  the  bright  window,  and  fell  upon  her 
bosom  and  cried  there.  Fanny  laughed  at  first;  but  soon 
laid  her  face  against  her  sister's  and  cried  too — a  little.  It 
was-  the  last  time  Fanny  ever  showed  that  there  was  any 
hidden,  suppressed,  or  conquered  feeling  in  her  on  the 
matter.  From  that  hour,  the  way  she  had  chosen  lay  before 
her,  and  she  trod  it  with  her  own  imperious  self-willed  step. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

NO   JUST   CAUSE    OR   IMPEDIMENT    WHY    THESE   TWO   PERSONS 
SHOULD    NOT    BE   JOINED    TOGETHER. 

Mr.  Dorrit,  on  being  informed  by  his  elder  daughter  that 
she  had  accepted  matrimonial  overtures  from  Mr.  Sparkler, 
to  whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth,  received  the  com- 
munication at  once  with  great  dignity  and  with  a  large  dis- 
play of  parental  pride;  his  dignity  dilating  with  the  widened 
prospect  of  advantageous  ground  from  which  to  make 
acquaintances,  and  his  parental  pride  being  developed  by 
Miss  Fanny's  ready  sympathy  with  that  great  object  of  his 
existence.  He  gave  her  to  understand  that  her  noble 
ambition  found  harmonious  echoes  in  his  heart  ;  and 
bestowed  his  blessing  on  her,  as  a  child  brimful  of  duty  and 
good  principle,  self-devoted  to  the  aggrandizement  of  the 
family  name. 

To  Mr.  Sparkler,  when  Miss  Fanny  permitted  him  to 
appear,  Mr.  Dorrit  said,  he  would  not  disguise  that  the 
alliance  Mr,  Sparkler  did  him  the  honor  to  propose  was 
highly  congenial  to  his  feelings  ;  both  as  being  in  unison 
with  the  spontaneous  affections  of  his  daughter  Fanny,  and 


598  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

as  opening  a  family  connection  of  a  gratifying  nature  with 
Mr.  Merdle,  the  master-spirit  of  the  age.  Mrs.  Merdle  also, 
as  a  leading  lady  rich  in  distinction,  elegance,  grace,  and 
beauty,  he  mentioned  in  very  laudatory  terms.  He  felt  it 
his  duty  to  remark  (he  was  sure  a  gentleman  of  Mr.  Spark- 
ler's fine  sense  would  interpret  him  with  all  delicacy),  that 
he  could  not  consider  this  proposal  definitely  determined 
on,  until  he  should  have  had  the  privilege  of  holding  some 
correspondence  with  Mr.  Merdle;  and  of  ascertaining  it  to 
be  so  far  accordant  with  the  views  of  that  eminent  gentle- 
man as  that  his  (Mr.  Dorrit's)  daughter  would  be  received 
on  that  footing,  which  her  station  in  life  and  her  dowry  and 
expectations  warranted  him  in  requiring  that  she  should 
maintain  in  what  he  trusted  he  might  be  allowed,  without 
the  appearance  of  being  mercenary,  to  call  the  eye  of  the 
great  world.  While  saying  this,  which  his  character  as  a 
gentleman  of  some  little  station,  and* his  character  as  a 
father,  equally  demanded  of  him,  he  would  not  be  so  diplo- 
matic as  to  conceal  that  the  proposal  remained  in  hopeful 
abeyance  and  under  conditional  acceptance,  and  that  he 
thanked  Mr.  Sparkler  for  the  compliment  rendered  to  him- 
self and  to  his  family.  He  concluded  with  some  further 
and  more  general  observations  on  the — ha — character  of  an 
independent  gentleman,  and  the — hum — character  of  a 
possibly  too  partial  and  admiring  parent.  To  sum  the 
whole  up  shortly,  he  received  Mr.  Sparkler's  offer  very  much 
as  he  would  have  received  three  or  four  half-crowns  from 
him  in  the  days  that  were  gone. 

Mr.  Sparkler,  finding  himself  stunned  by  the  words  thus 
heaped  upon  his  inoffensive  head,  made  a  brief  though 
pertinent  rejoinder;  the  same  being  neither  more  nor  less 
than  that  he  had  long  perceived  Miss  Fanny  to  have  no 
nonsense  about  her,  and  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  its  being 
all  right  with  his  governor.  At  that  point,  the  object  of  his 
affections  shut  him  up  like  a  box  with  a  spring  lid,  and  sent 
him  away. 

Proceeding  soon  afterward  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
bosom,  Mr.  Dorrit  was  received  by  it  with  great  consideration. 
Mrs.  Merdle  had  heard  of  this  affair  from  Edmund.  She  had 
been  surprised  at  first,  because  she  had  not  thought  Edmund 
a  marrying  man.  Society  had  not  thought  Edmund  a  marry- 
ing man.  Still,  of  course  she  had  seen,  as  a  woman  (we 
women  did  instinctively  see  these  things,  Mr.  Dorrit  !),  that 
Edmund  had  been  immensely  captivated  by  Miss  Dorrit,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  599 

she  had  openly  said  that  Mr.  Dorrit  had  much  to  answer 
for  in  bringing  so  charming  a  girl  abroad  to  turn  the  heads 
of  his  countrymen. 

''  Have  I  the  honor  to  conclude,  madam,*'  said  Mr.  Dor- 
rit, **  that  the  direction  which  Mr.  Sparkler's  affections  have 
taken,  is — ha — approved  of  by  you  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dorrit,"  returned  the  lady,  **  that,  per- 
sonally, I  am  charmed." 

That  was  very  gratifying  to  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"Personally,"  repeated  Mrs.  Merdle,  ** charmed." 

This  casual  repetition  of  the  word  personally,  moved  Mr. 
Dorrit  to  express  his  hope  that  Mr.  Merdle's  approval,  too, 
^vould  not  be  wanting  ? 

"  I  can  not,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle,  "  take  upon  myself  to 
answer  positively  for  Mr.  Merdle ;  gentlemen,  especially 
gentlemen  who  are  what  society  calls  capitalists,  having  their 
own  ideas  of  these  matters.  But  I  should  think — merely 
giving  an  opinion,  Mr.  Dorrit — I  should  think  Mr.  Merdle 
would  be,  upon  the  whole,"  here  she  held  a  review  of  her- 
self before  adding  at  her  leisure,  *'  quite  charmed." 

At  the  mention  of  gentlemen  whom  society  called  cap- 
italists, Mr.  Dorrit  had  coughed,  as  if  some  internal  demur 
were  breaking  out  of  him.  Mrs.  Merdle  had  observed  it, 
and  went  on  to  take  up  the  cue. 

"  Though,  indeed,  Mr.  Dorrit,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  for 
me  to  make  that  remark,  except  in  the  mere  openness  of  say- 
ing what  is  uppermost  to  one  whom  I  so  highly  regard, 
and  with  whom  I  hope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  being 
brought  into  still  more  agreeable  relations.  For,  one  can 
not  but  see  the  great  probability  of  your  considering  such 
things  from  Mr.  Merdle's  own  point  of  view,  except  indeed 
that  circumstances  have  made  it  Mr.  Merdle's  accidental 
fortune,  or  misfortune,  to  be  engaged  in  business  transac- 
tions, and  that  they,  however  vast,  may  a  little  cramp  his 
horizon.  I  am  a  very  child  as  to  having  any  notion  of  busi- 
ness," said  Mrs.  Merdle  ;  *'  but  I  am  afraid,  Mr.  Dorrit,  it 
may  have  that  tendency." 

This  skillful  see  saw  of  Mr.  Dorrit  and  Mrs.  Merdle  so  that 
each  of  them  sent  the  other  up,  and  each  of  them  sent  the 
other  down,  and  neither  had  the  advantage,  acted  as  a  sed- 
ative on  Mr.  Dorrit's  cough.  He  remarked  with  his  utmost 
politeness,  that  he  must  beg  to  protest  against  its  being  sup- 
posed, even  by  Mrs.  Merdle,  the  accomplished  and  graceful 
(to  which  compliment   she  bent  herself),   that  such  enter- 


6oo  LITTLE  DORRIT 

prises  as  Mr.  Merdle's,  apart  as  they  were  from  the  puny 
undertakings  of  the  rest  of  men,  had  any  lower  tendency 
than  to  enlarge  and  expand  the  genius  in  which  they  were 
conceived.  *' You  are  generosity  itself,"  said  Mrs.  Merdle 
in  return,  smiling  her  best  smile  ;  *^  let  us  hope  so.  But  I 
confess  I  am  almost  superstitious  in  my  ideas  about  busi- 
ness." 

Mr.  Dorrit  threw  in  another  compliment  here,  to  the 
effect,  that  business,  like  the  time  that  was  precious  in  it, 
was  made  for  slaves ;  and  that  it  was  not  for  Mrs.  Merdle 
who  ruled  all  hearts  at  her  supreme  pleasure,  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it.  Mrs.  Merdle  laughed  and  conveyed  to 
Mr.  Dorrit  an  idea  that  the  bosom  flushed — which  was  one 
of  her  best  effects. 

'^  I  say  so  much,"  she  then  explained,  *'  merely  because 
Mr.  Merdle  has  always  taken  the  greatest  interest  in  Ed- 
mund, and  has  always  expressed  the  strongest  desire  to  ad- 
vance his  prospects.  Edmund's  public  position  I  think  you 
know.  His  private  position  rests  wholly  with  Mr.  Merdle. 
In  my  foolish  incapacity  for  business,  I  assure  you  I  know 
no  more." 

Mr.  Dorrit  again  expressed  in  his  own  way,  the  sentiment 
that  business  was  below  the  ken  of  enslavers  and  enchant- 
resses. He  then  mentioned  his  intention,  as  a  gentleman 
and  a  parent,  of  writing  to  Mr.  Merdle.  Mrs.  Merdle  con- 
curred with  all  her  heart — or  with  all  her  art,  which  was  ex- 
actly the  same  thing — and  herself  dispatched  a  preparatory 
letter  by  the  next  post,  to  the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world. 

In  his  epistolary  communication,  as  in  his  dialogues  and 
discourses  on  the  great  question  to  which  it  related,  Mr. 
Dorrit  surrounded  the  subject  with  flourishes,  as  writing- 
masters  embellish  copy-books  and  ciphering-books  ;  where 
the  titles  of  the  elementary  rules  of  arithmetic  diverge  into 
swans,  eagles,  griffins,  and  other  caligraphic  recreations, 
and  where  the  capital  letters  go  out  of  their  minds  and 
bodies  into  ecstasies  of  pen  and  ink.  Nevertheless,  he  did 
render  the  purport  of  his  letter  sufficiently  clear  to  enable 
Mr.  Merdle  to  make  a  decent  pretense  of  having  learned  it 
from  that  source.  Mr.  Merdle  replied  to  it  accordingly. 
Mr.  Dorrit  replied  to  Mr.  Merdle  ;  Mr.  Merdle  replied  to 
Mr.  Dorrit  ;  and  it  was  soon  announced  that  the  correspond- 
ing powers  had  come  to  a  satisfactory  understanding. 

Now,  and  not  before,  Miss  Fanny  burst  upon  the  scene, 
completely  arrayed  for  her  new  part.     Now,  and  not  before, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  6oi 

she  wholly  absorbed  Mr.  Sparkler  in  her  light,  and  shone  for 
both,  and  twenty  more.  No  longer  feeling  that  want  of  a  de- 
fined place  and  character  which  had  caused  her  so  much 
trouble,  this  fair  ship  began  to  steer  steadily  on  a  shaped 
course,  and  to  swim  with  a  weight  and  balance  that  devel- 
oped her  sailing  qualities. 

"  The  preliminaries  being  so  satisfactorily  arranged,  I 
think  I  will  now,  my  dear,  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  ''  announce — ha 
— -formally,  to  Mrs.  General " 

"  Papa,"  returned  Fanny,  taking  him  up  short,  upon  that 
name.     "  I  don't  see  what  Mrs.  General  has  got  to  do  with 

it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  *'  it  would  be  an  act  of  court- 
esy to — hum — a  lady,  well  bred  and  refined '* 

"Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  Mrs.  General's  good  breeding  and 
refinement,  papa,"  said  Fanny.  *'  I  am  tired  of  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral." 

**  Tired,"  repeated  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  reproachful  astonish- 
ment, "of — ha — Mrs.  General." 

"  Quite  disgusted  with  her,  papa,"  said  Fanny.  *'  I  really 
don't  see  what  she  has  to  do  with  my  marriage.  Let  her 
keep  to  her  own  matrimonial  projects — if  she  has  any." 

"  Fanny,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  grave  and  weighty 
slowness  upon  him,  contrasting  strongly  with  his  daughter's 
levity  :  "  1  beg  the  favor  of  your  explaining — ha — what  it  is 
you  mean." 

"  I  mean,  papa,"  said  Fanny,  "that  if  Mrs.  General  should 
happen  to  have  any  matrimonial  projects  of  her  own,  I  dare 
say  they  are  quite  enough  to  occupy  her  spare  time.  And 
that  if  she  has  not,  so  much  the  better  ;  but  still  I  don't  wish 
to  have  the  honor  of  making  announcements  to  her." 

"  Permit  me  to  ask  you,  Fanny,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  why 
not?" 

"  Because  she  can  find  my  engagement  out  for  herself, 
papa,"  retorted  Fanny.  "  She  is  watchful  enough,  I  dare  say. 
I  think  I  have  seen  her  so.  Let  her  find  it  out  for  herself. 
If  she  should  not  find  it  out  for  herself,  she  will  know  it  when 
I  am  married.  And  I  hope  you  will  not  consider  me  wanting 
in  affection  for  you,  papa,  if  I  say  it  strikes  me  that  will  be 
quite  time  enough  for  Mrs.  General." 

"  Fanny,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  am  amazed,  I  am  dis- 
pleased, by  this — hum — this  capricious  and  unintelligible 
display  of  animosity  toward — ha — Mrs.  General." 

"  Do  not,  if  you  please,  papa,"  urged  Fanny,  "  call  it  ani- 


6c52  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

mosity,  because  I  assure  you  I  do  not  consider  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral worth  my  animosity.'* 

At  this,  Mr.  Dorrit  rose  from  his  chair  with  a  fixed  look 
of  severe  reproof,  and  remained  standing  in  his  dignity  be- 
fore his  daughter.  His  daughter,  turning  the  bracelet  on 
her  arm,  and  now  looking  at  him,  and  now  looking  from  him, 
said,  "  Very  well,  papa.  I  am  truly  sorry  if  you  don't  like 
it ;  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  am  not  a  child,  and  I  am  not  Amy, 
and  I  must  speak." 

*^  Fanny,"  gasped  Mr.  Dorrit,  after  a  majestic  silence,  "  if 
I  request  you  to  remain  here,  while  I  formally  announce  to 
Mrs.  General,  as  an  exemplary  lady  who  is — hum — a  trusty 
member  of  this  family,  the — ha — the  change  that  is  contem- 
plated among  us  ;  if  I — ha — not  only  request  it,  but — hum 
^insist  upon  it " 

*^  Oh,  papa,"  Fanny  broke  in  with  pointed  significance, 
*'  if  you  make  so  much  of  it  as  tnat,  I  have  in  duty  nothing  to 
do  but  comply.  I  hope  I  may  have  my  thoughts  upon  the 
subject,  however,  for  I  really  can  not  help  it  under  the  cir- 
cumstances." So,  Fanny  sat  down  with  a  meekness  which, 
in  the  junction  of  extremes,  became  defiance  ;  and  her 
father,  either  not  deigning  to  answer,  or  not  knowing  what 
to  answer,  summoned   Mr.  Tinkler  into  his  presence. 

''  Mrs.  General." 

Mr.  Tinkler,  unused  to  receive  such  short  orders  in  con- 
nection with  the  fair  varnisher,  paused.  Mr.  Dorrit,  seeing 
the  whole  Marshalsea  and  all  its  testimonials  in  the  pause, 
instantly  flew  at  him  with,  **  how  dare  you,  sir  ?  What  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  pleaded  Mr.  Tinkler,  "  I  was 
wishful  to  know " 

**  You  wished  to  know  nothing,  sir,"  cried  Mr.  Dorrit, 
highly  flushed.  "  Don't  tell  me  you  did.  Ha.  You  didn't. 
You  are  guilty  of  mockery,  sir." 

'*  I  assure  you,  sir "  Mr.  Tinkler  began. 

"  Don't  assure  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  *^  I  will  not  be  as- 
sured by  a  domestic.  You  are  guilty  of  mockery.  You  shall 
leave  me — hum — the  whole  establishment  shall  leave  me. 
What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  " 

"  Only  for  my  orders,  sir." 

"It's  false,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "you  have  your  orders. 
Ha — hum.  My  compliments  to  Mrs.  General,  and  I  beg  the 
favor  of  her  coming  to  me,  if  quite  convenient,  for  a  few 
minutes.     Those  are  your  orders." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  603 

In  his  execution  of  this  mission,  Mr.  Tinkler  perhaps  ex- 
pressed that  Mr.  Dorrit  was  in  a  raging  fume.  However  that 
was,  Mrs.  General's  skirts  were  very  speedily  heard  outside, 
coming  along — one  might  almost  have  said  bouncing  along — 
with  unusual  expedition.  Albeit,  they  settled  down  at  the 
door  and  swept  into  the  room  with  their  customary  coolness. 

*^  Mrs.  General,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  ^'  take  a  chair." 

Mrs.  General,  v/ith  a  graceful  curve  of  acknowledgment, 
descended  into  the  chair  which  Mr.  Dorrit  offered. 

^'  Madam,"  pursued  that  gentleman,  "  as  you  have  had  the 
kindness  to  undertake  the — hum — formation  of  my  daugh- 
ters, and  as  I  am  persuaded  that  nothing  nearly  affecting 
them  can — ha — be  indifferent  to  you " 

"  Wholly  impossible,"  said  Mrs.  General  in  the  calmest  of 
ways. 

"  — I  therefore  wish  to  announce  to  you,  madam,  that  my 
daughter  now  present " 

Mrs.  General  made  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head  to 
Fanny,  who  made  a  very  low  inclination  of  her  head  to  Mrs. 
General,  and  came  loftily  upright  again. 

'^ — That  my  daughter  Fanny  is — ha — contracted  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Sparkler,  with  whom  you  are  acquainted. 
Hence,  madam,  you  will  be  relieved  of  half  your  difficult 
charge — ha — difficult  charge."  Mr.  Dorrit  repeated  it  with 
his  angry  eye  on  Fanny.  *'  But  not,  I  hope,  to  the — hum — 
diminution  of  any  other  portion,  direct  or  indirect,  of  the 
footing  you  have  at  present  the  kindness  to  occupy  in  my 
family," 

*^  Mr.  Dorrit,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  with  her  gloved 
hands  resting  on  one  another  in  exemplary  repose,  '^  is  ever 
considerate,  and  ever  but  too  appreciative  of  my  friendly 
services." 

(Miss  Fanny  coughed,  as  much  as  to  say,  "You  are 
right.") 

'*  Miss  Dorrit  has  no  doubt  exercised  the  soundest  discre- 
tion of  which  the  circumstances  admitted,  and  I  trust  will 
allow  me  to  offer  her  my  sincere  congratulations.  When  free 
from  the  trammels  of  passion,"  Mrs.  General  closed  her  eyes 
at  the  word,  as  if  she  could  not  utter  it,  and  see  any  body  ; 
'*  when  occurring  with  the  approbation  of  near  relatives  ;  and 
when  cementing  the  proud  structure  of  a  family  edifice  ; 
these  are  usually  auspicious  events.  I  trust  Miss  Dorrit  will 
allow  me  to  offer  my  best  congratulations." 

Here  Mrs.  General  stopped,  and  added  internally,  for  the 


6o4  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

setting  of  her  face,  "  Papa,  potatoes,  poultry,  prunes  and 
prism." 

"  Mr.  Dorrit,*'  she  superadded  aloud,  *'  is  ever  most  oblig- 
ing ;  and  for  the  attention,  and  I  will  add  distinction,  of 
having  this  confidence  imparted  to  me  by  himself  and  Miss 
Dorrit  at  this  early  time,  I  beg  to  offer  the  tribute  of  my 
thanks.  My  thanks,  and  my  congratulations,  are  equally  the 
meed  of  Mr.  Dorrit  and  of  Miss  Dorrit." 

"  To  me,"  observed  Miss  Fanny,  "  they  are  excessively 
gratifying — inexpressibly  so.  The  relief  of  finding  that  you 
have  no  objection  to  make,  Mrs.  General,  quite  takes  a  load 
off  my  mind,  I  am  sure.  I  hardly  know  what  I  should  have 
done,"  said  Fanny,  ^'  if  you  had  interposed  any  objection, 
Mrs.  General." 

Mrs.  General  changed  her  gloves,  as  to  the  right  glove 
being  uppermost  and  the  left  undermost,  with  a  prunes  and 
prism  smile. 

'^  To  preserve  your  approbation,  Mrs.  General,"  said 
Fanny,  returning  the  smile  with  one  in  which  there  was  no 
trace  of  those  ingredients,  "  will  of  course  be  the  highest 
object  of  my  married  life  ;  to  lose  it,  would  of  course  be 
perfect  wretchedness.  I  am  sure  your  great  kindness  will 
not  object,  and  I  hope  papa  will  not  object,  to  my  correcting 
a  small  mistake  you  have  made,  however.  The  best  of  us 
are  so  liable  to  mistakes,  that  even  you,  Mrs.  General,  have 
fallen  into  a  little  error.  The  attention  and  distinction  you 
have  so  impressively  mentioned,  Mrs.  General,  as  attaching 
to  this  confidence,  are,  I  have  no  doubt,  of  the  most  com- 
plimentary and  gratifying  description  ;  but  they  don't  all 
proceed  from  me.  The  merit  of  having  consulted  you  on 
the  subject  would  have  been  so  great  in  me,  that  I  feel  I 
must  not  lay  claim  to  it  when  it  really  is  not  mine.  It  is 
wholly  papa's.  I  am  deeply  obliged  to  you  for  your  en- 
couragement and  patronage,  but  it  was  papa  who  asked  for 
it.  I  have  to  thank  you,  Mrs.  General,  for  relieving  my 
breast  of  a  great  weight  by  so  handsomely  giving  your  con- 
sent to  my  engagement,  but  you  have  really  nothing  to  thank 
me  for.  I  hope  you  will  always  approve  of  my  proceedings 
after  I  have  left  home,  and  that  my  sister  also  may  long 
remain  the  favored  object  of  your  condescension,  Mrs. 
General." 

With  this  address,  which  was  delivered  in  her  politest 
manner,  Fanny  left  the  room  with  an  elegant  and  cheerful  air 
— to  tear  up  stairs  with  a  flushed  face  as  soon  as  she  was  out 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  603 

of  hearing  pounce  in  upon  her  sister,  call  her  a  little  dor- 
mouse, shake  her  for  the  better  opening  of  her  eyes,  tell  her 
what  had  passed  below,  and  ask  her  what  she  thought  about 
papa  now  ? 

Toward  Mrs.  Merdle,  the  young  lady  comported  herself 
with  great  independence  and  self-possession  ;  but  not  as  yet 
with  any  more  decided  opening  of  hostilities.  Occasionally 
they  had  a  slight  skirmish,  as  when  Fanny  considered  herself 
patted  on  the  back  by  that  lady,  or  as  when  Mrs.  Merdle 
looked  particularly  young  and  well  ;  but  Mrs.  Merdle  always 
soon  terminated  those  passages  of  arms  by  sinking  among 
her  cushions  with  the  gracefulest  indifference,  and  finding 
her  attention  otherwise  engaged.  Society  (for  that  mysteri- 
ous creature  sat  upon  the  seven  hills  too)  found  Miss  Fanny 
vastly  improved  by  her  engagement.  She  was  much  more 
accessible,  much,  more  free  and  engaging,  much  less  exact- 
ing ;  insomuch  that  she  now  entertained  a  host  of  followers 
and  admirers,  to  the  bitter  indignation  of  ladies  with  daugh- 
ters to  marry,  who  were  to  be  regarded  as  having  revolted 
from  society  on  the  Miss  Dorrit  grievance,  and  erected  a 
rebellious  standard.  Enjoying  the  flutter  she  caused,  Miss 
Dorrit  not  only  haughtily  moved  through  it  in  her  own 
proper  person,  but  haughtily,  even  ostentatiously,  led  Mr. 
Sparkler  through  it  too  :  seeming  to  say  to  them  all,  "  If  I 
think  proper  to  march  among  you  in  triumphal  procession 
attended  by  this  weak  captive  in  bonds,  rather  than  a 
stronger  one,  that  is  my  business.  Enough  that  I  choose  to 
do  it !  "  Mr.  Sparkler,  for  his  part,  questioned  nothing  ;  but 
went  wherever  he  was  taken,  did  whatever  he  was  told,  felt 
that  for  his  bride-elect  to  be  distinguished  was  for  him  to  be 
distinguished  on  the  easiest  terms,  and  was  truly  grateful  for 
being  so  openly  acknowledged. 

The  winter  passing  on  toward  the  spring  while  this  con- 
dition of  affairs  prevailed,  it  became  necessary  for  Mr. 
Sparkler  to  repair  to  England,  and  take  his  appointed  part 
in  the  expression  and  direction  of  its  genius,  learning,  com- 
merce, spirit,  and  sense.  The  land  of  Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Bacon,  Newton,  Watt,  the  land  of  a  host  of  past  and  present 
abstract  philosophers,  natural  philosophers,  and  subduers  of 
nature  and  art  in  their  myriad  forms,  called  to  Mr.  Sparkler 
to  come  and  take  care  of  it,  lest  it  should  perish.  Mr.  Spark- 
ler, unable  to  resist  the  agonized  cry  from  the  depths  of  his 
country's  soul,  declared  that  he  must  go. 

It  followed  that  the  question  was  rendered  pressing  when, 


6o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

where,  and  how,  Mr.  Sparkler  s/iould  be  married  to  the  fore- 
most  girl  in  all  this  world  with  no  nonsense  about  her.  Its 
solution,  after  some  little  mystery  and  secrecy,  Miss  Fanny 
herself  announced  to  her  sister. 

^'  Now,  my  child,"  said  she,  seeking  her  out  one  day,  *'  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  something.  It  is  only  this  moment 
broached  ;  and  naturally  I  hurry  to  you  the  moment  it  is 
broached." 

"  Your  marriage,  Fanny  ?  " 

^'  My  precious  child,"  said  Fanny,  "don't  anticipate  me. 
Let  me  impart  my  confidence  to  you,  you  flurried  little  thing, 
in  my  own  way.  As  to  your  guess,  if  I  answered  it  literally, 
I  should  answer  no.  For  really  it  is  not  my  marriage  that  is 
in  question,  half  as  much  as  it  is  Edmund's." 

Little  Dorrit  looked,  and  perhaps  not  altogether  with- 
out cause,  somewhat  at  a  loss  to  understand  this  fine 
distinction. 

"  I  am  in  no  difficulty,"  exclaimed  Fanny,  "  and  in  no 
hurry.  I  am  not  wanted  at  any  public  office,  or  to  give  any 
vote  anywhere  else.  But  Edmund  is.  And  Edmund  is 
deeply  dejected  at  the  idea  of  going  away  by  himself,  and, 
indeed,  I  don't  like  that  he  should  be  trusted  by  himself. 
For,  if  it's  possible — and  it  generally  is — to  do  a  foolish 
thing,  he  is  sure  to  do  it." 

As  she  concluded  this  impartial  summary  of  the  reliance 
that  might  be  safely  placed  upon  her  future  husband,  she 
took  off,  with  an  air  of  business,  the  bonnet  she  wore,  and 
dangled  it  by  its  strings  upon  the  ground. 

"  It  is  far  more  Edmund's  question,  therefore,  than 
mine.  However,  we  need  say  no  more  about  that.  That 
is  self-evident  on  the  face  of  it.  Well,  my  dearest  Amy  ! 
the  point  arising,  is  he  to  go  by  himself,  or  is  he  not  to 
go  by  himself,  this  other  point  arises,  are  we  to  be  married 
here  and  shortly,  or  are  we  to  be  married  at  home  months 
hence  !  " 

"  I  see  I  am  going  to  lose  you,  Fanny." 

"What  a  little  thing  you  are,"  cried  Fanny,  half  tolerant 
and  half  impatient,  "  for  anticipating  one  !  Pray,  my  darling, 
hear  me  out.  That  woman,"  she  spoke  of  Mrs.  Merdle,  of 
course,  "  remains  here  until  after  Easter  ;  so,  in  the  case  of 
my  being  married  here  and  going  to  London  with  Edmund, 
I  should  have  the  start  of  her.  That  is  something.  Further, 
Amy.  That  woman  being  out  of  the  way,  I  don't  know  that 
I  greatly  object  to  Mr.  Merdle's  proposal  to  pa  that  Edmund 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  607 

and  I  should  take  up  our  abode  in  that  house — you  know — 
where  you  once  went  with  a  dancer,  my  dear,  until  our  own 
house  can  be  chosen  and  fitted  up.  Further  still,  Amy. 
Papa  having  always  intended  to  go  to  town  himself,  in  the 
spring — you  see,  if  Edmund  and  I  were  married  here,  we 
might  go  off  to  Florence,  where  papa  might  join  us,  and  we 
might  all  three  travel  home  together.  Mr.  Merdle  has  en- 
treated pa  to  stay  with  him  in  that  same  mansion  I  have 
nentioned,  and  1  suppose  he  will.  But  he  is  master  of  his 
own  actions;  and  upon  that  point  (which  is  not  at  all  ma- 
terial) I  can't  speak  positively." 

The  difference  between  papa's  being  master  of  his  own 
actions  and  Mr.  Sparkler's  being  nothing  of  the  sort,  was 
forcibly  expressed  by  Fanny  in  her  manner  of  stating  the 
case.  Not  that  her  sister  noticed  it;  for  she  was  divided 
between  regret  at  the  coming  separation,  and  a  lingering 
wish  that  she  had  been  included  in  the  plans  for  visiting 
England. 

*'  And  these  are  the  arrangements,  Fanny  dear  ?  " 

"  Arrangements  !  "  repeated  Fanny.  "  Now,  really,  child, 
you  are  a  little  trying.  You  know  I  particularly  guarded  my- 
self against  laying  my  words  open  to  any  such  construction. 
What  I  said  was,  that  certain  questions  present  themselves  ; 
and  these  are  the  questions." 

Little  Dorrit's  thoughtful  eyes  met  hers,  tenderly  and 
quietly. 

"  Now,  my  own  sweet  girl,"  said  Fanny,  weighing  her  bon- 
net by  the  strings  with  considerable  impatience,  "  it's  no 
use  staring.  A  little  owl  could  stare.  I  look  to  you  for 
advice.  Amy.     What  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Little  Dorrit  persuasively,  after  a 
short  hesitation,  "  do  you  think,  Fanny,  th^it  if  you  were  to 
put  it  off  for  a  few  months,  it  might  be,  considering  all 
things,  best." 

"  No,  little  Tortoise,"  retorted  Fanny,  with  exceeding 
sharpness.     ^'  I  don't  think  any  thing  of  the  kind." 

Here,  she  threw  her  bonnet  from  her  altogether,  and 
flounced  into  a  chair.  But,  becoming  affectionate  almost 
immediately,  she  flounced  out  of  it  again,  and  kneeled  down 
on  the  floor  to  take  her  sister,  chair  and  all,  in  her  arms. 

^'  Don't  suppose  I  am  hasty  or  unkind,  darling,  because  I 
really  am  not.  But  you  are  such  a  little  oddity  !  You  make 
one  bite  your  head  off,  when  one  wants  to  be  soothing  be- 
yond every  thing.     Didn't  I  tell  you,  you  dearest  baby,  that 


6o8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Edmund  can't  be  trusted  by  himself  ?  And  don't  you  know 
that  he  can't  ?" 

**  Yes,  yes,  Fanny.     You  said  so,  I  know." 

*'  And  you  know  it,  I  know,"  retorted  Fanny.  **  Well, 
my  precious  child  !  If  he  is  not  to  be  trusted  by  himself,  it 
follows,  I  suppose,  that  I  should  go  with  him  ?  " 

**  It — seems  so,  love,"  said  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Therefore  having  heard  the  arrangements  that  are  feasi- 
ble to  carry  out  that  object,  am  I  to  understand,  dearest 
Amy,  that  on  the  whole  you  advise  me  to  make  them  ? " 

"  It — seems  so,  love,"  said  Little  Dorrit  again. 

**  Very  well  !  "  cried  Fanny,  with  an  air  of  resignation, 
"  then  I  suppose  it  must  be  done  !  I  came  to  you,  my 
sweet,  the  moment  I  saw  the  doubt,  and  the  necessity  of 
deciding.     I  have  now  decided.     So  let  it  be." 

After  yielding  herself  up,  in  this  pattern  manner,  to  sis- 
terly advice  and  the  force  of  circumstances,  Fanny  became 
quite  benignant  :  as  one  who  had  laid  her  own  inclinations 
at  the  feet  of  her  dearest  friend,  and  felt  a  glow  of  con- 
science in  having  made  the  sacrifice.  "  After  all,  my  Amy," 
she  said  to  her  sister,  "  you  are  the  best  of  small  creatures, 
and  full  of  good  sense;  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  ever 
do  without  you  !  " 

With  which  words  she  folded  her  in  a  closer  embrace,  and 
a  really  fond  one. 

"  Not  that  I  contemplate  doing  without  you.  Amy,  by  any 
means,  for  I  hope  we  shall  ever  be  next  to  inseparable.  And 
now,  my  pet,  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  word  of  advice. 
When  you  are  left  alone  here  with  Mrs.  General " 

"  I  am  to  be  left  alone  here,  with  Mrs.  General  ?  "  said 
Little  Dorrit,  quietly. 

*'  Why,  of  course,  my  precious,  till  papa  comes  back  ! 
Unless  you  call  Edward  company,  which  he  certainly  is  not, 
even  when  he  is  here,  and  still  more  certainly  is  not  when  he 
is  away  at  Naples  or  in  Sicily.  I  was  going  to  say — but  you 
are  such  a  beloved  little  marplot  for  putting  one  out — when 
you  are  left  alone  here  with  Mrs.  General,  Amy,  don't  you 
let  her  slide  into  any  sort  of  artful  understanding  with 
you  that  she  is  looking  after  pa,  or  that  pa  is  looking 
after  her.  She  will  if  she  can.  /  know  her  sly  man- 
ner of  feeling  her  way  with  those  gloves  of  hers.  But 
don't  you  comprehend  her  on  any  account.  And  if 
pa  should  tell  when  he  comes  back,  that  he  has  it  in  con- 
templation to  make    Mrs.    General    your    mamma    (which 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  609 

IS  not  the  less  likely  because  I  am  going  away),  my  ad- 
vice to  you  is,  that  you  say  at  once,  *  Papa,  I  beg  to  object 
most  strongly  ;  Fanny  cautioned  me  about  this,  and  she 
objected,  and  I  object.*  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  any  objec- 
tion from  you.  Amy,  is  likely  to  be  of  the  smallest  effect,  or 
that  I  think  you  likely  to  make  it  with  any  degree  of  firmness. 
But  there  is  a  principle  involved — a  filial  principle — and  I 
implore  you  not  to  submit  to  be  mother-in-lawed  by  Mrs. 
General,  without  asserting  it  in  making  every  one  about  you 
as  uncomfortable  as  possible.  I  don't  expect  you  to  stand 
by  it — indeed,  I  know  you -won't,  pa  being  concerned — but  I 
wish  to  rouse  you  to  a  sense  of  duty.  As  to  any  help  from 
me,  or  as  to  any  opposition  that  I  can  offer  to  such  a  match, 
you  shall  not  be  left  in  the  lurch,  my  love.  Whatever  weight 
I  may  derive  from  my  position  as  a  married  girl  not  wholly 
devoid  of  attractions — used,  as  that  position  always  shall  be, 
to  oppose  that  woman — I  will  bring  to  bear,  you  may  depend 
upon  it,  on  the  head  and  false  hair  (for  I  am  confident  it's 
not  all  real,  ugly  as  it  is,  and  unlikely  as  it  appears  that  any 
one  in  their  senses  would  go  to  the  expense  of  buying  it)  of 
Mrs.  General  !  " 

Little  Dorrit  received  this  counsel  without  venturing  to 
oppose  it,  but  without  giving  Fanny  any  reason  to  believe 
that  she  intended  to  act  upon  it.  Having  now,  as  it  were, 
formally  wound  up  her  single  life  and  arranged  her  worldly 
affairs,  Fanny  proceeded  with  characteristic  ardor  to  prepare 
for  the  serious  change  in  her  condition. 

The  preparation  consisted  in  the  dispatch  of  her  maid  to 
Paris  under  the  protection  of  the  courier,  for  the  purchase 
of  that  outfit  for  a  bride  on  which  it  would  be  extremely  low, 
in  the  present  narrative,  to  bestow  an  English  name,  but  to 
which  (on  a  vulgar  principle  it  observes  of  adhering  to  the 
language  in  which  it  professes  to  be  written)  it  declines  to 
give  a  French  one.  The  rich  and  beautiful  wardrobe  pur- 
chased by  these  agents,  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks  made 
its  way  through  the  intervening  country,  bristling  with  cus- 
tom-houses, garrisoned  by  an  immense  army  of  shabby  mendi- 
cants in  uniform,  who  incessantly  repeated  the  Beggar's  Peti- 
tion over  it,  as  if  every  individual  warrior  among  them  were 
the  ancient  Belisarius  :  and  of  whom  there  were  so  many 
legions,  that  unless  the  courier  had  expended  just  one  bushel 
and  a  half  of  silver  money  in  relieving  their  distresses,  they 
would  have  worn  the  wardrobe  out  before  it  got  to  Rome, 
by  turning  it  over  and  over.     Through  all  such  dangers,  how- 


6io  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ever,  it  was  triumphantly  brought,  inch  by  inch,  and  arrived 
at  its  journey's  end  in  fine  condition. 

There  it  was  exhibited  to  select  companies  of  female 
viewers,  in  whose  gentle  bosoms  it  awakened  inplacable  feel- 
ings. Concurrently,  active  preparations  were  made  for  the 
day  on  which  some  of  its  treasures  were  to  be  publicly  dis- 
played. Cards  of  breakfast-invitation  were  sent  out  to  half 
the  English  in  the  city  of  Romulus  ;  the  other  half  made 
arrangements  to  be  under  arms,  as  criticising  volunteers,  at 
various  outer  points  of  the  solemnity.  The  most  high  and 
illustrious  English  Signor  Edgardo  Dorrit,  came  post  through 
the  deep  mud  and  rust  (from  forming  a  surface  under  the 
improving  Neapolitan  nobility),  to  grace  the  occasion.  The 
best  hotel,  and  all  its  culinary  myrmidons,  were  set  to 
work  to  prepare  the  feast.  The  drafts  of  Mr.  Dorrit  almost 
constituted  a  run  on  the  Torlonia  Bank.  The  British  con- 
sul hadn't  had  such  a  marriage  in  the  whole  of  his  consul- 
arity. 

The  day  came,  and  the  she-wolf  in  the  capitol  might 
have  snarled  with  envy  to  see  how  the  island  savages  con- 
trived these  things  now-a-days.  .  The  murderous-headed 
statues  of  the  wicked  emperors  of  the  soldiery,  whom  sculp- 
tors had  not  been  able  to  flatter  out  of  their  villainous  hid- 
eousness,  might  have  come  off  their  pedestals  to  run  away 
with  the  bride.  The  choked  old  fountain,  where  erst  the 
gladiators  washed,  might  have  leaped  into  life  again  to  honor 
the  ceremony.  The  temple  of  Vesta  might  have  sprung  up 
anew  from  its  ruins,  expressly  to  lend  its  countenance  to  the 
occasion.  Might  have  done  ;  but  did  not.  Like  sentient 
things — even  like  the  lords  and  ladies  of  creation  sometimes 
— might  have  done  much,  but  did  nothing.  The  celebration 
went  off  with  admirable  pomp  :  monks  in  black  robes, 
white  robes,  and  russet  robes  stopped  to  look  after  the  car- 
riages ;  wandering  peasants  in  fleeces  of  sheep,  begged  and 
piped  under  the  house-windows  ;  the  English  volunteers 
defiled  ;  the  day  wore  on  to  the  hour  of  vespers  ;  the  festi- 
val wore  away  ;  the  thousand  churches  rang  their  bells  with- 
out any  reference  to  it ;  and  St.  Peter  denied  that  he  had 
any  thing  to  do  with  it. 

But  by  that  time  the  bride  was  near  the  end  of  the  first 
day's  journey  toward  Florence.  It  was  the  peculiarity  of 
the  nuptials  that  they  were  all  bride.  Nobody  noticed  the 
bridegroom.  Nobody  noticed  the  first  bridesmaid.  Few 
could  have  seen  Little  Dorrit  (who  held  that  post)  for  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  6ii 

glare,  even  supposing  many  to  have  sought  her.  So  the 
bride  had  mounted  into  her  handsome  chariot,  incidentally 
accompanied  by  the  bridegroom  ;  and  after  rolling  for  a  few- 
minutes  smoothly  over  a  fair  pavement,  had  begun  to  jolt 
through  a  slough  of  despond,  and  through  a  long,  long 
avenue  of  wrack  and  ruin.  Other  nuptial  carriages  are  said 
to  have  gone  the  same  road,  before  and  since. 

If  Little  Dorrit  found  herself  left  a  little  lonely  and  a  little 
low  that  night,  nothing  would  have  done  so  much  against 
her  feeling  of  depression  as  the  being  able  to  sit  at  work  by 
her  father,  as  in  the  old  time,  and  help  him  to  his  supper 
and  his  rest.  But  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of  now,  when 
they  sat  in  the  state-equipage  with  Mrs.  General  on  the 
coach-box.  And  as  to  supper  !  If  Mr.  Dorrit  had  wanted 
supper,  there  was  an  Italian  cook  and  there  was  a  Swiss  con- 
fectioner, who  must  have  put  on  caps  as  high  as  the  pope's 
miter,  and  have  performed  the  mysteries  of  alchemists  in  a 
copper-saucepaned  laboratory  below,  before  he  could  have 
got  it. 

He  was  sententious  and  didactic  that  night.  If  he  had 
been  simply  loving,  he  would  have  done  Little  Dorrit  more 
good  ;  but  she  accepted  him  as  he  was — when  had  she  not 
accepted  him  as  he  was  ! — and  made  the  most  and  best  of 
him.  Mrs.  General  at  length  retired.  Her  retirement  for 
the  night  was  always  her  frostiest  ceremony  ;  as  if  she  felt 
it  necessary  that  the  human  imagination  should  be  chilled 
into  stone,  to  prevent  its  following  her.  When  she  had  gone 
through  her  rigid  preliminaries,  amounting  to  a  sort  of 
genteel  platoon-exercise,  she  withdrew.  Little  Dorrit  then 
put  her  arm  round  her  father's  neck,  to  bid  him  good- 
night. 

"  Amy,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
"  this  is  the  close  of  a  day,  that  has — ha — greatly  impressed 
and  gratified  me." 

"A  little  tired  you,  dear,  too?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  no  :  I  am  not  sensible  of  fatigue 
when  it  arises  from  an  occasion  so — hum — replete  with  grat- 
ification of  the  purest  kind." 

Little  Dorrit  was  glad  to  find  him  in  such  heart,  and  smiled 
from  her  own  heart. 

"My  dear,"  he  continued,  "this  is  an  occasion — ha — 
teeming  with  a  good  example.  With  a  good  example,  my 
favorite  and  attached  child — hum — to  you." 

Little   Dorrit,  fluttered  by  his  words,  did  not  know  what 


6 12  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

to  say,  though  he  stopped,  as  if  he  expected  her  to  say  some- 
thing. 

"  Amy,"  he  resumed  ;  "  your  dear  sister,  our  Fanny,  has 
contracted — ha,  hum — a  marriage,  eminently  calculated  to 
extend  the  basis  of  our — ha — connection,  and  to — hum — - 
consolidate  our  social  relations.  My  love,  I  trust  that  the 
time  is  not  far  distant  when  some — ha — eligible  partner  may 
be  found  for  you." 

**  Oh  no  !  Let  me  stay  with  you.  I  beg  and  pray  that  I 
may  stay  with  you  !  I  want  nothing  but  to  stay  and  take 
care  of  you  !  " 

She  said  it  like  one  in  sudden  alarm. 

^*  Nay,  Amy,  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "This  is  weak  and 
foolish,  weak  and  foolish.  You  have  a — ha — responsibility 
imposed  upon  you  by  your  position.  It  is  to  develop  that 
position,  and  be — hum — worthy  of  that  position.  As  to 
taking  care  of  me  ;  I  can — ha — take  care  of  myself.  Or," 
he  added  after  a  moment,  "  if  I  should  need  to  be  taken 
care  of,  I — hum — can,  with  the — ha — blessing  of  Provi- 
dence, be  taken  care  of.  I — ha,  hum — I  can  not,  my  dear 
child,  think  of  engrossing,  and — ha — as  it  were,  sacrificing 
you." 

Oh  what  a  time  of  day  at  which  to  begin  that  profession 
of  self-denial  ;  at  which  to  make  it  with  an  air  of  taking  credit 
for  it  ;  at  which  to  believe  it,  if  such  a  thing  could  be  ! 

"  Don't  speak,  Amy.  I  positively  say  I  can  not  do  it.  I 
— ha — must  not  do  it.  My — hum — conscience  would  not 
allow  it.  I  therefore,  my  love,  take  the  opportunity  afforded 
by  this  gratifying  and  impressive  occasion  of— ha — solemnly 
remarking,  that  it  is  now  a  cherished  wish  and  purpose  of 
mine  to  see  you — ha — eligibly  (I  repeat  eligibly)  married." 

"  Oh  no,  dear  !     Pray  !  " 

**  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  *'  I  am  well  pursuaded  that  if 
the  topic  were  referred  to  any  person  of  superior  social 
knowledge,  of  superior  delicacy  and  sense — let  us  say,  for 
instance,  to — ha — Mrs.  General — that  there  would  not  be 
two  opinions  as  to  the — hum— affectionate  character  and 
propriety  of  my  sentiments.  But,  as  I  know  your  loving 
and  dutiful  nature  from — hum — from  experience,  I  am  quite 
satisfied  that  it  is  necessary  to  say  no  more.  I  have — hum — 
no  husband  to  propose  at  present,  my  dear  ;  I  have  not  even 
one  in  view.  I  merely  wish  that  we  should — ha — under- 
stand each  other.  Plum,  Good-night,  my  dear  and  sole 
remaining  daughter.     Good-night.     God  bless  you  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  613 

If  the  thought  ever  entered  Little  Dorrit's  head,  that  flight, 
that  he  could  give  her  up  lightly  now,  in  his  prosperity,  and 
when  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  replace  her  with  a  second  wife, 
she  drove  it  away.  Faithful  to  him  still,  as  in  the  worst  times 
through  which  she  had  borne  him  single-handed,  she  drove 
the  thought  away ;  and  entertained  no  harder  reflection,  in 
her  tearful  unrest,  than  that  he  now  saw  every  thing  through 
their  wealth,  and  through  the  care  he  always  had  upon  him 
that  they  should  continiie  rich  and  grow  richer. 

They  sat  in  their  equipage  of  state,  with  Mrs.  General  on 
the  box,  for  three  weeks  longer^  and  then  he  started  for  Flor- 
ence to  join  Fanny.  Little  Dorrit  would  have  been  glad  to 
bear  him  company  so  far,  only  for  the  sake  of  her  own  love, 
and  then  to  have  turned  back  alone,  thinking  of  dear 
England.  But,  though  the  courier  had  gone  on  with  the 
bride,  the  valet  was  next  in  the  line  :  and  the  succession 
would  not  have  come  to  her,  as  long  as  any  one  could  be 
got  for  money. 

Mrs.  General  took  life  easily — as  easily,  that  is,  as  she 
could  take  any  thing — when  the  Roman  establishment 
remained  in  their  sole  occupation  ;  and  Little  Dorrit  would 
often  ride  out  in  a  hired  carriage  that  was  left  them,  and 
alight  alone  and  wander  among  the  ruins  of  old  Rome.  The 
ruins  of  the  vast  old  amphitheater,  of  the  old  temples,  of 
the  old  commemorative  arches,  of  the  old  trodden  highways, 
of  the  old  tombs,  besides  being  what  they  were,  to  her,  were 
ruins  of  the  old  Marshalsea — ruins  of  her  own  old  life — ruins 
of  the  faces  and  forms  that  of  old  peopled  it— ruins  of  its 
loves,  hopes^  cares,  and  joys.  Two  ruined  spheres  of  action 
and  suffering  were  before  the  solitary  girl  often  sitting  on 
some  broken  fragment  ;  and  in  the  lonely  places,  under  the 
blue  sky,  she  saw  them  both  together. 

Up,  then,  would  come  Mrs.  General  ;  taking  all  the  color 
out  of  every  thing,  as  nature  and  art  had  taken  it  out  of  her- 
self ;  writing  prunes  and  prism,  in  Mr.  Eustace's  text,  where- 
ever  she  could  lay  a  hand  ;  looking  everywhere  for  Mr.  Eus- 
tace and  company,  and  seeing  nothing  else  ;  scratching  up 
the  dryest  Httle  bones  of  antiquity,  and  bolting  them  whole 
without  any  human  visitings — like  a  ghoul  in  gloves. 


6i4  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

GETTING  ON. 

The  newly  married  pair,  on  their  arrival  in  Harley  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  London,  were  received  by  the  chief  but- 
ler. That  great  man  was  not  interested  in  them,  but  on  the 
whole  endured  them.  People  must  continue  to  be  married 
and  given  in  marriage,  or  chief  butlers  would  not  be  wanted. 
As  nations  are  made  to  be  taxed,  so  families  are  made  to  be 
butlered.  The  chief  butler,  no  doubt,  reflected  that  the 
course  of  nature  required  the  wealthy  population  to  be  kept 
up,  on  his  account. 

He  therefore  condescended  to  look  at  the  carriage  from 
the  hall  door  without  frowning  at  it,  and  said,  in  a  very 
handsome  way,  to  one  of  his  men,  "  Thomas  help  with  the 
luggage."  He  even  escorted  the  bride  up  stairs  into  Mr. 
Merdle's  presence  ;  but  this  must  be  considered  as  an  act 
of  homage  to  the  sex  (of  which  he  was  an  admirer,  being 
notoriously  captivated  by  the  charms  of  a  certain  duchess), 
and  not  as  a  committal  of  himself  with  the  family. 

Mr.  Merdle  was  slinking  about  the  hearthrug,  waiting  to 
welcome  Mrs.  Sparkler.  His  hand  seemed  to  retreat  up  his 
sleeve  as  he  advanced  to  do  so,  and  he  gave  her  such  a 
superfluity  of  coat-cuff  that  it  was  like  being  received  by  the 
popular  conception  of  Guy  Fawkes.  When  he  put  his  lips 
to  hers,  besides,  he  took  himself  into  custody  by  the  wrists, 
and  backed  himself  among  the  ottomans  and  chairs  and 
tables  as  if  he  were  his  own  police  officer,  saying  to  himself, 
*^  Now,  none  of  that !  Come  !  I've  got  you,  you  know,  and 
you  go  quietly  along  with  me  !  " 

Mrs.  Sparkler,  installed  in  the  rooms  of  state — the  inner- 
most sanctuary  of  down,  silk,  chintz,  and  fine  linen — felt  that 
so  far  her  triumph  was  good,  and  her  way  made,  step  by  step. 
On  the  day  before  her  marriage,  she  had  bestowed  on  Mrs. 
Merdle's  maid  with  an  air  of  gracious  indifference,  in  Mrs. 
Merdle's  presence,  a  trifling  little  keepsake  (bracelet,  bonnet, 
and  two  dresses,  all  new)  about  four  times  as  valuable  as  the 
present  formerly  made  by  Mrs.  Merdle  to  her.  She  was  now 
established  in  Mrs.  Merdle's  own  rooms,  to  which  some  extra 
touches  had  been  given  to  render  them  more  worthy  of  her 
occupation.  In  her  mind's  eye,  as  she  lounged  there,  sur- 
rounded by  every  luxurious    accessory   that  wealth   could 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  615 

obtain  or  invention  devise,  she  saw  the  fair  bosom  that  beat 
in  unison  with  the  exultation  of  her  thoughts,  competing 
with  the  bosom  that  had  been  famous  so  long,  outshining  it, 
and  deposing  it.  Happy  ?  Fanny  must  have  been  happy. 
No  more  wishing  one's  self  dead  now. 

The  courier  had  not  approved  of  Mr.  Dorrit's  staying  in 
the  house  of  a  friend,  and  had  preferred  to  take  him  to  an 
hotel  in  Brook  Street,  Grosvenor  Square.  Mr.  Merdle 
ordered  his  carriage  to  be  ready  early  in  the  morning  that 
he  might  wait  upon  Mr.  Dorrit  immediately  after  breakfast. 

Bright  the  carriage  looked,  sleek  the  horses  looked,  gleam- 
ing the  harness  looked,  luscious  and  lasting  the  liveries 
looked.  A  rich,  responsible  turn-out.  An  equipage  for  a 
Merdle.  Early  people  looked  after  it  as  it  rattled  along  the 
streets,  and  said,  with  awe  in  their  breath,  *'  There  he  goes  !  " 

There  he  went,  until  Brook  Street  stopped  him.  Then, 
forth  from  its  magnificent  case  came  the  jewel ;  not  lustrous 
in  itself,  but  quite  the  contrary. 

Commotion  in  the  office  of  the  hotel.  Merdle  !  The  land- 
lord, though  a  gentleman  of  a  haughty  spirit  who  had  just 
driven  a  pair  of  thorough-bred  horses  into  town,  turned  out 
to  show  him  up  stairs.  The  clerks  and  servants  cut  him  off 
by  back-passages,  and  were  found  accidentally  hovering  in 
doorways  and  angles,  that  they  might  look  upon  him.  Mer- 
dle !  Oh  ye  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  great  man  !  The 
rich  man,  who  had  in  a  manner  revised  the  New  Testament, 
and  already  entered  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  The  m.an 
who  could  have  any  one  he  chose  to  dine  with  him,  and  who 
had  made  the  money  !  As  he  went  up  the  stairs,  people 
were  already  posted  on  the  lower  stairs,  that  his  shadow 
might  fall  upon  them  when  he  came  down.  So  were  the 
sick  brought  out  and  laid  in  the  track  of  the  apostle — who 
had  not  got  into  the  good  society,  and  had  not  made  the 
money. 

Mr.  Dorrit,  dressing-gowned  and  newspapered,  was  at  his 
breakfast.  The  courier,  with  agitation  in  his  voice, 
announced  "  Miss'  Mairdale  !  "  Mr.  Dorrit's  overwrought 
heart  bounded  as  he  leaped  up. 

"  Mr.  Merdle,  this  is — ha — indeed  an  honor.  Permit  me 
to  express  the — hum — sense,  the  high  sense,  I  entertain  of 
this — ha,  hum — highly  gratifying  act  of  attention.  I  am  well 
aware,  sir,  of  the  many  demands  upon  your  time,  and  its — 
ha — enormous  value."  Mr.  Dorrit  could  not  say  enormous 
roundly  enough  for  his  own  satisfaction.     *'  That  you  should 


6i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

— ha — at  this  early  hour,  bestow  any  of  your  priceless  time 
upon  me,  is — ha — a  compliment  that  I  acknowledge  with  the 
greatest  esteem."  Mr.  Dorrit  positively  trembled  in  address- 
ing the  great  man. 

Mr.  Merdle  uttered,  in  his  subdued,  inward,  hesitating 
voice,  a  few  sounds  that  were  to  no  purpose  whatever  ;  and 
finally  said,  ^'  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir." 

^*  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Truly  kind." 
By  this  time  the  visitor  was  seated,  and  was  passing  his  great 
hand  over  his  exhausted  forehead.  ^'  You  are  well,  I  hope, 
Mr.  Merdle  ? " 

**  I  am  as  well  as  I — yes,  I  am  as  well  as  I  usually  am/* 
said  Mr.  Merdle. 

**  Your  occupations  must  be  immense." 

*^  Tolerably  so.  But — oh  dear  no,  there's  not  much  the 
matter  with  tnCy'  said  Mr.  Merdle,  looking  round  the  room. 

"  A  little  dyspeptic  ?  "  Mr.  Dorrit  hinted. 

**  Very  likely.  But  I — oh,  I  am  well  enough,"  said  Mr. 
Merdle. 

There  were  black  traces  on  his  lips  where  they  met,  as  if 
a  little  train  of  gunpowder  had  been  fired  there  ;  and  he 
looked  like  a  man  who,  if  his  natural  temperament  had  been 
quicker,  would  have  been  very  feverish  that  morning.  This, 
and  his  heavy  way  of  passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead, 
had  prompted  Mr.  Dorrit's  solicitous  inquiries. 

*'  Mrs.  Merdle,"  Mr.  Dorrit  insinuatingly  pursued,  "  I  left, 
a^  you  will  be  prepared  to  hear,  the — ha — observed  of  all 
obververs,  the — hum — admired  of  all  admirers,  the  leading 
fascination  and  charm  of  society  in  Rome.  She  was  look- 
ing wonderfully  well  when  I  quitted  it." 

''  Mrs.  Merdle,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  ^*  is  generally  considered 
a  very  attractive  woman.  And  she  is,  no  doubt.  I  am 
sensible  of  her  being  so." 

"  Who  can  be  otherwise  ?  "  responded  Mr.  Dorrit. 

Mr.  Merdle  turned  his  tongue  in  his  closed  mouth — it 
seemed  rather  a  stiff  and  unmanageable  tongue — moistened 
his  lips,  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  again,  and 
looked  all  round  the  room  again,  principally  under  the 
chairs. 

^  "  But,'' he  said,  looking  Mr.  Dorrit  in  the  face  for  the  first 
time,  and  immediately  afterward  dropping  his  eyes  to  the 
buttons  of  Mr.  Dorrit's  waistcoat  ;  ''  if  we  speak  of  attrac- 
tions, your  daughter  ought  to  be  the  subject  of  our  conversa- 
tion.    She  is  extremely  beautiful.     Both  in  face  and  figure, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  617 

she  is  quite  uncommon.  When  the  young  people  arrived 
last  night,  I  was  really  surprised  to  see  such  charms." 

Mr.  Dorrit's  gratification  was  such  that  he  said — ha — he 
could  not  refrain  from  telling  Mr.  Merdle  verbally,  as  he  had 
already  done  by  letter,  what  honor  and  happiness  he  felt  in 
this  union  of,  their  families.  And  he  offered  his  hand.  Mr. 
Merdle  looked  at  the  hand  for  a  little  while,  took  it  on  his 
for  a  moment  as  if  his  were  a  yellow  salver  or  fish-slice,  and 
then  returned  it  to  Mr.  Dorrit. 

**  I  thought  I  would  drive  round  the  first  thing,"  said  Mr. 
Merdle,  "  to  offer  my  services,  in  case  I  can  do  any  thing  for 
you  ;  and  to  say  that  I  hope  you  will  at  least  do  me  the 
honor  of  dining  with  me  to-day,  and  every  day  when  you 
are  not  better  engaged,  during  your  stay  in  town." 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  enraptured  by  these  attentions. 

"  Do  ycu  stay  long,  sir  ?  " 

*^  I  have  not  at  present  the  intention,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit, 
"of — ha — exceeding  a  fortnight." 

**  That's  a  very  short  stay,  after  so  long  a  journey,"  returned 
Mr.  Merdle. 

"  Hum.  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "But  the  truth  is — ha — 
my  dear  Mr.  Merdle,  that  I  find  a  foreign  life  so  well  suited 
to  my  health  and  taste,  that  I — hum — have  but  two  objects 
in  my  present  visit  to  London.  First,  the — ha — the  distin- 
guished happiness  and — ha — privilege  which  I  now  enjoy  and 
appreciate  ;  secondly,  the  arrangement — hum — the  laying  out, 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  best  way,  of — ha,  hum — my  money." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  after  turning  his  tongue 
again,  "  if  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you  in  that  respect,  you 
may  command  me." 

Mr.  Dorrit's  speech  had  had  more  hesitation  in  it  than 
usual,  as  he  approached  the  ticklish  topic,  for  he  was  not 
perfectly  clear  how  so  exalted  a  potentate  might  take  it.  He 
had  doubts  whether  reference  to  any  individual  capital  or 
fortune  might  not  seem  a  wretchedly  retail  affair  to  so  whole- 
sale a  dealer.  Greatly  relieved  by  Mr.  Merdle's  affable  offer 
of  assistance,  he  caught  at  it  directly,  and  heaped  acknowl- 
edgments upon  him. 

"  I  scarcely — ha — dared,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  I  assure  you, 
to  hope  for  so — hum — vast  an  advantage  as  your  direct 
advice  and  assistance.  Though  of  course  I  should,  under 
^nv  circumstances,  like  the — ha,  hum — rest  of  the  civilized 
world,  nave  loilowea  m  Mr.  Merdle's  train." 

"  You  know  we  may  also  say  we  are  related,  sir,"  said  Mr. 


6i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Merdle,  curiously  interested  in  the  pattern  of  the  carpet, 
''  and,  therefore,  you  may  consider  me  at  your  service." 

"  Ha.  Very  handsome,  indeed  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dorrit.  ^'  Ha. 
Most  handsome." 

"  It  would  not,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  *'  be  at  the  present 
moment  easy  for  what  I  may  call  a  mere  outsider  to  come 
into  any  of  the  good  things — of  course  I  speak  of  my  own 
good  things " 

*^  Of  course,  of  course  !  *'  cried  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  a  tone  imply- 
ing that  there  were  no  other  good  things. 

^* — Unless  at  a  high  pnce.  At  what  we  are  accustomed 
to  term  a  very  long  figure." 

Mr.  Dorrit  laughed  in  the  buoyancy  of  his  spirit.  Ha,  ha, 
ha !  Long  figure.  Good.  Ha.  Very  expressive  to  be 
sure  ! 

"  However,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  "  I  do  generally  retain  in 
my  own  hands  the  power  of  exercising  some  preference — 
people  in  general  would  be  pleased  to  call  it  favor — as  a  sort 
of  compliment  for  my  care  and  trouble." 

"  And  public  spirit  and  genius,"  Mr.  Dorrit  suggested. 

Mr.  Merdle,  with  a  dry,  swallowing  action,  seemed  to  dis- 
pose of  those  qualities  like  a  bolus  ;  then  added,  "  as  a  sort 
of  return  for  it.  I  will  see,  if  you  please,  how  I  can  exert 
this  limited  power  (for  people  are  jealous,  and  it  is  limited) 
to  your  advantage." 

*'  You  are  very  good,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrit.  **  You  are  very 
good." 

^'  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  **  there  must  be  the  strict- 
est integrity  and  uprightness  in  these  transactions  ;  there 
must  be  the  purest  faith  between  man  and  man  ;  there  must 
be  unimpeached  and  unimpeachable  confidence  ;  or  business 
could  not  be  carried  on. 

Mr.  Dorrit  hailed  these  generous  sentiments  with  fervor. 

"Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,"!  can  only  give  you  a 
preference  to  a  certain  extent." 

"  I  perceive.     To  a  defined  extent,"  observed  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"  Defined  extent.  And  perfectly  above-board.  As  to  my 
advice,  however,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  "  that  is  another  matter. 
That,  such  as  it  is ~" 

Oh  !  Such  as  it  was  !  (Mr.  Dorrit  could  not  bear  the 
faintest  appearance  of  its  being  depreciated,  even  by  Mr. 
Merdle  himself.) 

" — That,  there  is  nothing  in  the  bonds  of  spotless  honor 
between  myself  and  my  fellow-man  to  prevent  my  parting 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  619 

with,  if  I  choose.  And  that/'  said  Mr.  Merdle,  now  deeply- 
intent  upon  a  dust-cart  that  was  passing  the  windows,  ''  shall 
be  at  your  command  whenever  you  think  proper." 

New  acknowledgments  from  Mr.  Dorrit.  New  passages 
of  Mr.  Merdle's  hand  over  his  forehead.  Calm  and  silence. 
Contemplation  of  Mr.  Dorrit's  waistcoat  buttons  by  Mr. 
Merdle. 

"  My  time  being  rather  precious,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  sud- 
denly getting  up,  as  if  he  had  been  waiting  in  the  interval 
for  his  legs,  and  they  had  just  come,  "  I  must  be  moving  to- 
ward the  city.  Can  I  take  you  anywhere,  sir  ?  I  shall  be 
happy  to  set  you  down,  or  send  you  on.  My  carriage  is  at 
your  disposal." 

Mr.  Dorrit  bethought  himself  that  he  had  business  at  his 
banker's.  His  banker's  was  in  the  city.  That  was  fortunate  ; 
Mr.  Merdle  would  take  him  into  the  city.  But  surely,  he 
might  not  detain  Mr.  Merdle  while  he  assumed  his  coat  ? 
Yes,  he  might,  and  must ;  Mr.  Merdle  insisted  on  it.  So  Mr. 
Dorrit,  retiring  into  the  next  room,  put  himself  under  the 
hands  of  his  valet,  and  in  five  minutes  came  back  glorious. 

Then,  said  Mr.  Merdle,  "  Allow  me,  sir.  Take  my  arm  !  " 
Then,  leaning  on  Mr.  Merdle's  arm,  did  Mr.  Dorrit  descend 
the  staircase,  seeing  the  worshipers  on  the  steps,  and  feel- 
ing that  the  light  of  Mr.  Merdle  shone  by  reflection  in  him- 
self. Then,  the  carriage,  and  the  ride  into  the  city  ;  and 
the  people  who  looked  at  them  ;  and  the  hats  that  flew  off 
gray  heads  ;  and  the  general  bowing  and  crouching  before 
this  wonderful  mortal,  the  like  of  which  prostration  of  spirit 
was  not  to  be  seen — no,  by  high  heaven,  no  !  It  may  be 
worth  thinking  of  by  fawners  of  all  denominations — in 
Westminster  Abbey  and  Saint  Paul's  Cathedral  put  together, 
on  any  Sunday  in  the  year.  It  was  a  rapturous  dream  to 
Mr.  Dorrit,  to  find  himself  set  aloft  in  this  public  car  of 
triumph  making  a  magnificent  progress  to  that  befitting 
destination,  the  golden  street  of  the  Lombards. 

There,  Mr.  Merdle  insisted  on  alighting  and  going  his  way 
afoot,  and  leaving  his  poor  equipage  at  Mr.  Dorrit's  disposi- 
tion. So  the  dream  increased  in  rapture  when  Mr.  Dorrit 
came  out  of  the  bank  alone,  and  people  looked  at  him  in 
default  of  Mr.  Merdle,  and  when,  with  the  ears  of  his  mind, 
he  heard  the  frequent  exclamation  as  he  rolled  glibly  along, 
**  A  wonderful  man  to  be  Mr.  Merdle's  friend  !  " 

At  dinner  that  day,  although  the  occasion  was  not  foreseen 
and  provided  for,  a   brilliant   company  of  such   as  are  not 


620  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

made  of  the  dust  of  the  earth,  but'  of  some  superior  article 
for  the  present  unknown,  shed  their  histrous  benediction  upon 
Mr.  Dorrit's  daughter's  marriage.  And  Mr.  Dorrit's  daugh- 
ter that  day  began,  in  earnest,  her  competition  with  that 
woman  not  present  ;  and  began  it  so  well,  that  Mr.  Dorrit 
could  all  but  have  taken  his  affidavit,  if  required,  that  Mrs. 
Sparkler  had  all  her  life  been  lying  at  full  length  in  the  lap 
of  luxury,  and  had  never  heard  of  such  a  rough  word  in  the 
English  tongue  as  Marshalsea. 

Next  day,  and  the  day  after,  and  every  day,  all  graced  by 
more  dinner  company,  cards  descended  on  Mr.  Dorrit  like 
theatrical  snow.  As  the  friend  and  relative  by  marriage  of 
the  illustrious  Merdle,  Bar,  Bishop,  Treasury,  chorus,  every 
body,  wanted  to  make  or  improve  Mr.  Dorrit's  acquaintance. 
In  Mr.  Merdle's  heaps  of  offices  in  the  city,  when  Mr.  Dor- 
rit appeared  at  any  of  them  on  his  business  taking  him  East- 
ward (which  it  frequently  did,  for  it  throve  amazingly),  the 
name  of  Dorrit  was  always  a  passport  to  the  great  presence 
of  Merdle.  So  the  dream  increased  in  rapture  every 
hour,  as  Mr.  Dorrit  felt  increasingly  sensible  that  this  con- 
nection had  brought  him  forward  indeed. 

Only  one  thing  sat  otherwise  than  auriferously,  and  at  the 
same  time  lightly,  on  Mr.  Dorrit's  mind.  It  was  the 
chief  butler.  That  stupendous  character  looked  at  him 
in  the  course  of  his  official  looking  at  the  dinners,  in  a 
manner  that  Mr.  Dorrit  considered  questionable.  He 
looked  at  him,  as  he  passed  through  the  hall  and  up  the 
staircase,  going  to  dinner,  with  a  glazed  fixedness  that 
Mr.  Dorrit  did  not  like.  Seated  at  table  in  the  act  of 
drinking,  Mr.  Dorrit  still  saw  him  through  his  wine-glass, 
regarding  him  with  a  cold  and  ghostly  eye.  It  misgave 
him  that  the  chief  butler  must  have  known  a  collegian,  and 
must  have  seen  him  in  the  college — perhaps  had  been  pre- 
sented to  him.  He  looked  as  closely  at  the  chief  butler  as 
such  a  man  could  be  looked  at,  and  yet  he  did  not  recall  that 
he  had  ever  seen  him  elsewhere.  Ultimately  he  was  inclined 
to  think  there  was  no  reverence  in  the  man,  no  sentiment  in  the 
great  creature.  But  he  was  not  relieved  by  that ;  for  let 
him  think  what  he  would,  the  chief  butler  had  him  in  his 
supercilious  eye,  even  when  that  eye  was  on  the  plate  and 
other  table-garniture  ;  and  he  never  let  him  out  of  it.  To 
hint  to  him  that  this  confinement  in  his  eye  was  disagreeable, 
or  to  ask  him  what  he  meant,  was  an  act  too  daring  to  ven- 
ture upon  ;  his  severity  with  his  employers  and  their  visitors 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  621 

being    terrific,   and    he    never    permitting   himself    to    be 
approached  with  the  slightest  liberty. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

MISSING. 

The  term  of  Mr.  Dorrit's  visit  was  within  two  days  of 
being  out,  and  he  was  about  to  dress  for  another  inspection 
by  the  chief  butler  (whose  victims  were  always  dressed 
expressly  for  him),  when  one  of  the  servants  of  the  hotel 
presented  himself  bearing  a  card.     Mr.  Dorrit  taking  it  read: 

^^  Mrs.  Finching." 

The  servant  waited  in  speechless  deference. 

"  Man,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  turning  upon  him  with  griev- 
ous indignation,  *'  explain  your  motive  in  bringing  me  this 
ridiculous  name.  I  am  wholly  unacquainted  with  it. 
Finching,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  perhaps  avenging  himself ' 
on  the  chief  butler  by  substitute.  "  Ha  !  What  do  you 
mean  by  Finching  ?  " 

The  man,  man,  seemed  to  mean  flinching  as  much  as 
any  thing  else,  for  he  backed  away  from  Mr.  Dorrit's  severe 
regard,  as  he  replied,  "  A  lady,  sir." 

^'  I  know  no  such  lady,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  **  Take 
this  card  away.     I  know  no  Finching  of  either  sex." 

"  Ask  your  pardon,  sir.  The  lady  said  she  was  aware 
that  she  might  be  unknown  by  name.  But  she  begged  me 
to  say,  sir,  that  she  had  formerly  the  honor  of  being  acquainted 
with  Miss  Dorrit.  The  lady  said,  sir,  the  youngest  Miss 
Dorrit." 

Mr.  Dorrit  knitted  his  brows,  and  rejoined,  after  a  moment 
or  two,  "  Inform  Mrs.  Finching,  sir,"  emphasizing  the  name 
as  if  the  innocent  man  were  solely  responsible  for  it,  "  that 
she  can  come  up." 

He  had  reflected,  in  his  momentary  pause,  that  unless  she 
were  admitted  she  might  leave  some  message,  or  might  say 
something  below,  having  a  disagreeable  reference  to  that 
former  state  of  existence.  Hence  the  concession,  and 
hence  the  appearance  of   Flora,  piloted  in  by  the  man,  man. 

"  I  have  not  the  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  standing, 
with  the  card  in  his  hand,  and  with  an  air  which  imported 
that  it  would  scarcely  have  been  a  first-class  pleasure  if  he 


62  2  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

had  had  it,  "  of  knowing  either  this  name,  or  yourself, 
madam.     Place  a  chair,  sir." 

The  responsible  man,  with  a  start,  obeyed,  and  went  out 
on  tiptoe.  Flora,  putting  aside  her  veil  with  a  bashful  tre- 
mor upon  her,  proceeded  to  introduce  herself.  At  the  same 
time  a  singular  combination  of  perfumes  was  diffused  through 
the  room,  as  if  some  brandy  had  been  put  by  mistake  in  a 
lavender-water  bottle,  or  as  if  some  lavender-water  had  been 
put  by  mistake  in  a  brandy-bottle. 

"  I  beg  Mr.  Dorrit  to  offer  a  thousand  apologies  and 
indeed  they  would  be  far  too  few  for  such  an  intrusion 
which  I  know  must  appear  extremely  bold  in  a  lady  and 
alone  too,  but  I  thought  it  best  upon  the  whole  however 
difficult  and  even  apparently  improper  though  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt  would  have  willingly  accompanied  me  and  as  a  charac- 
ter of  great  force  and  spirit  would  probably  have  struck 
one  possessed  of  such  a  knowledge  of  life  as  no  doubt  with 
so  many  changes  must  have  been  acquired,  for  Mr.  F.  him- 
self said  frequently  that  although  well  educated  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Blackheath  at  as  high  as  eighty  guineas 
which  is  a  good  deal  for  parents  and  the  plate  kept  back  too 
on  going  away  but  that,  is  more  a  meanness  than  its  value 
that  he  had  learned  more  in  his  first  year  as  a  commercial 
traveler  with  a  large  commission  on  the  sale  of  an  article 
that  nobody  would  hear  of  much  less  buy  which  preceded 
the  wine  trade  a  long  time  than  in  the  whole  six  years  in 
that  academy  conducted  by  a  college  bachelor,  though  why 
a  bachelor  more  clever  than  a  married  -man  I  do  not  see 
and  never  did  but  pray  excuse  me  that  is  not  the  point." 

Mr.  Dorrit  stood  rooted  to  the  carpet,  a  statue  of  mystifi- 
cation. 

^^  I  must  openly  admit  that  I  have  no  pretensions,"  said 
Flora,  "  but  having  known  the  dear  little  thing  which  under 
altered  circumstances  appears  a  liberty  but  istiot  so  intended 
and  goodness  knows  there  was  no  favor  in  half-a-crown  a-day 
to  such  a  needle  as  herself  but  quite  the  other  way  and  as  to 
any  thing  lowering  in  it  far  from  it  the  laborer  is  worthy  of 
his  hire  and  I  am  sure  I  only  wish  he  got  it  oftener  and  more 
animal  food  and  less  rheumatism  in  the  back  and  legs  poor 
soul." 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  recovering  his  breath  by  a 
great  effort,  as  the  relict  of  the  late  Mr.  Finching  stopped  to 
take  hers  ;  "  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  very  red  in  the  face, 
'^  if  I  understand  you  to  refer  to — ha — to  any  thing  in  the  an- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  623 

tecedents  of — hum — a  daughter  of  mine,  involving — ha,  hum 
— daily  compensation,  madam,  I  beg  to  observe  that  the — 
ha — fact,  assuming  it — ha — to  be  fact,  never  was  within  my 
knowledge.  Hum.  I  should  not  have  permitted  it.  Ha. 
Never  !     Never  !  " 

"  Unnecessary  to  pursue  the  subject,''  returned  Flora, 
"  and  would  not  have  mentioned  it  on  any  account  except  as 
supposing  it  a  favorable  and  only  letter  of  introduction  but 
as  to  being  fact  no  doubt  whatever  and  you  may  set  your 
mind  at  rest  for  the  very  dress  I  have  on  now  can  prove  it 
and  sweetly  made  though  there  is  no  denying  that  it  would 
tell  better  on  a  better  figure  for  my  own  is  much  too  fat 
though  how  to  bring  it  down  I  know  not,  pray  excuse  me  I 
am  roving  off  again." 

Mr.  Dorrit  backed  to  his  chair  in  a  stony  way,  and  seated 
himself,  as  Flora  gave  him  a  softening  look  and  played  with 
her  parasol. 

*'  The  dear  little  thing,"  said  Flora,  **  having  gone  off  per- 
fectly limp  and  white  and  cold  in  my  own  house  or  at  least 
papa's  for  though  not  a  .freehold  still  a  long  lease  at  a  pep- 
percorn on  the  morning  when  Arthur — foolish  habit  of  our 
youthful  days  and  Mr.  Clennam  far  more  adapted  to  existing 
circumstances  particularly  addressing  a  stranger  and  that 
stranger  a  gentleman  in  an  elevated  station — communicated 
the  glad  tidings  imparted  by  a  person  of  the  name  of  Pancks 
emboldens  me." 

At  the  mention  of  these  two  names,  Mr.  Dorrit  frowned, 
stared,  frowned  again,  hesitated  with  his  fingers  at  his  lips, 
as  he  had  hesitated  long  ago,  and  said,  **  Do  me  the  favor  to 
— ha — state  your  pleasure,  madam." 

"  Mr.  Dorrit,"  said  Flora,  "  you  are  very  kind  in  giving 
me  permission  and  highly  natural  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
should  be  kind  for  tliough  more  stately  I  perceive  a  likeness 
filled  out  of  course  but  a  likeness  still,  the  object  of  my 
intruding  is  my  own  without  the  slightest  consultation  with 
any  human  being  and  most  decidedly  not  with  Arthur — pray 
excuse  me  Doyce  and  Clennam  I  don't  know  what  I  am  say- 
ing Mr.  Clennam  solus — for  to  put  that  individual  linked  by 
a  golden  chain  to  a  purple  time  when  all  was  ethereal  out  of 
any  anxiety  would  be  worth  to  me  the  ransom  of  a  monarch 
not  that  I  have  the  least  idea  how  much  that  would  come  to 
but  using  it  as  the  total  of  all  1  have  in  the  world  and  more." 

Mr.  Dorrit,  without  greatly  regarding  the  earnestness  of 
these  latter  words,  repeated,  ''  State  your  pleasure,  madam." 


624  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  It's  not  likely  I  well  know,"  said  Flora,  ^*  but  it's  possi- 
ble and  being  possible  when  I  had  the  gratification  of  read- 
ing in  the  papers  that  you  had  arrived  from  Italy  and  were 
going  back  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  it  for  you  might  come 
across  him  or  hear  something  of  him  and  if  so  what  a  bless- 
ing and  relief  to  all  !  " 

'*  Allow  me  to  ask,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  his 
ideas  in  wild  confusion,  **  to  whom — ha — to  whom,"  he 
repeated  it  with  a  raised  voice  in  mere  desperation,  you  "  at 
present  allude  ?  " 

'*  To  the  foreigner  from  Italy  who  disappeared  in  the  city 
as  no  doubt  you  have  read  in  the  papers  equally  with  him- 
self," said  Flora,  "  not  referring  to  private  sources  by  the 
name  of  Pancks  from  which  one  gathered  what  dreadfully 
ill-natured  things  some  people  are  wicked  enough  to  whisper 
most  likely  judging  others  by  themselves  and  what  the  uneasi- 
ness and  indignation  of  Arthur — quite  unable  to  overcome 
it  Doyce  and  Clennam — can  not  fail  to  be." 

It  happened,  fortunately  for  the  elucidation  of  any  intelli- 
gible result,  that  Mr.  Dorrit  had  heard  or  read  nothing  about 
the  matter.  This  caused  Mrs.  Finching,  with  many  apologies 
for  being  in  great  practical  difficulties  as  to  finding  the  way  to 
her  pocket  among  the  stripes  of  her  dress,  at  length  to  pro- 
duce a  police  hand-bill,  setting  forth  that  a  foreign  gentle- 
man of  the  name  of  Blandois,  last  from  Venice,  had  unac- 
countably disappeared  on  such  a  night  in  such  a  part  of  the 
city  of  London  ;  that  he  was  known  to  have  entered  such  a 
house,  at  such  an  hour  ;  that  he  was  stated  by  the  inmates 
of  that  house  to  have  left  it  about  so  many  minutes  before 
midnight  ;  and  that  he  had  never  been  beheld  since.  This, 
with  exact  particulars  of  time  and  locality,  and  with  a  good 
detailed  description  of  the  foreign  gentleman  who  had  so 
mysteriously  vanished,  Mr.  Dorrit  read  at  large. 

*'  Blandois  !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  ''  Venice  !  And  this  de- 
scription! I  know  this  gentleman.  He  has  been  in  my  house. 
He  is  intimately  acquainted  with  a  gentleman  of  good  family 
(but  in  different  circumstances),  of  whom  I  am  a — hum — 
patron." 

**  Then  my  humble  and  pressing  entreaty  is  the  more," 
said  Flora,  *'  that  in  traveling  back  you  will  have  the  kind- 
ness to  look  for  his  foreign  gentleman  along  all  the  roads 
and  up  and  down  all  the  turnings  and  to  make  inquiries  for 
him  at  all  the  hotels  and  orange-trees  and  vineyards  and 
volcanoes  and  places  for  he  must  be  somewhere  and  why 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  625 

doesn't  he  come  forward  and  say  he's  there  and  clear  all  par- 
ties up  ?  " 

^^  Pray,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  referring  to  the  handbill 
again,  ^^  who  is  Clennam  &  Co.  ?  Ha.  I  see  the  name 
mentioned  here,  in  connection  with  the  occupation  of  the 
house  which  Monsieur  Blandois  was  seen  to  enter  ;  who  is 
Clennam  &  Co.  ?  Is  it  the  individual  of  whom  I  had  for- 
merly—hum— some — ha — slight  transitory  knowledge,  and  to 
whom  I  believe  you  have  referred  ?  Is  it — ha — that  per- 
son ?  " 

*'  It's  a  very  different  person  indeed,"  replied  Flora,  ^*  with 
no  limbs  and  wheels  instead  and  the  grimmest  of  women 
though  his  mother." 

"  Clennam  &  Co.  a — hum — a  mother !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Dorrit. 

"  And  an  old  man  besides,"  said  Flora. 

Mr.  Dorrit  looked  as  if  he  must  immediately  be  driven 
out  of  his  mind  by  this  account.  Neither  was  it  rendered 
more  favorable  to  sanity  by  Flora's  dashing  into  a  rapid 
analysis  of  Mr.  Flintwinch's  cravat,  and  describing  him, 
without  the  lightest  boundary  line  of  separation  between  his 
identity  and  Mrs.  Clennam's,  as  a  rusty  screw  in  gaiters. 
Which  compound  of  man  and  woman,  no  limbs,  wheels,  rusty 
screw,  grimness,  and  gaiters,  so  completely  stupefied  Mr. 
Dorrit,  that  he  was  a  spectacle  to  be  pitied. 

"  But  I  would  not  detain  you  one  moment  longer,"  said 
Flora,  upon  whom  his  condition  wrought  its  effect,  though 
she  was  quite  unconscious  of  having  produced  it,  '^  if  you 
would  have  the  goodness  to  give  me  your  promise  as  a  gentle- 
man that  both  in  going  back  to  Italy  and  in  Italy  too  you 
would  look  for  this  Mr.  Blandois  high  and  low  and  if  you 
found  or  heard  of  him  make  him  come  forward  for  the  clear- 
ing of  all  parties." 

By  that  time  Mr.  Dorrit  had  so  far  recovered  from  his  be- 
wilderment, as  to  be  able  to  say,  in  a  tolerably  connected 
manner,  that  he  should  consider  that  his  duty.  Plora  was 
delighted  with  her  success,  and  rose  to  take  her  leave. 

"  With  a  million  thanks,"  said  she,  "  and  my  address  upon 
my  card  in  case  of  any  thing  to  be  communicated  personally. 
I  will  not  send  my  love  to  the  dear  little  thing  for  it  might 
not  be  acceptable,  and  indeed  there  is  no  dear  little  thing 
left  in  the  transformation  so  why  do  it  but  both  myself  and 
Mr.  F.'s  aunt  ever  wish  her  well  and  lay  no  claim  to  any 
favor  on  our  side  you  may  be  sure  of  that  but  quite  the  other 


626  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

way  for  what  she  undertook  to  do  she  did  and  that  is  more 
than  a  great  many  of  us  do,  not  to  say  any  thing  of  her  doing 
it  as  well  as  it  could  be  done  and  I  myself  am  one  of  them, 
for  I  have  said  ever  since  I  began  to  recover  the  blow  of  Mr. 
F.'s  death  that  I  would  learn  the  organ  of  which  I  am  ex- 
tremely fond  but  of  which  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  do  not  yet 
know  a  note,  good  evening  !  " 

When  Mr.  Dorrit,  who  attended  her  to  the  room-door,  had 
had  a  little  time  to  collect  his  senses,  he  found  that  the  in- 
terview had  summoned  back  discarded  reminiscences  which 
jarred  with  the  Merdle  dinner-table.  He  wrote  and  sent  off 
a  brief  note  excusing  himself  for  that  day  and  ordered  din- 
ner presently  in  his  own  rooms  at  the  hotel.  He  had  another 
reason  for  this.  His  time  in  London  was  very  nearly  out, 
and  was  anticipated  by  engagements;  his  plans  were  made 
for  returning;  and  he  thought  it  behooved  his  importance  to 
pursue  some  direct  inquiry  into  the  Blandois  disappearance, 
and  be  in  a  condition  to  carry  back  to  Mr.  Henry  Gowan 
the  result  of  his  own  personal  investigation.  He  therefore 
resolved  that  he  would  take  advantage  of  that  evening's  free- 
dom to  go  down  to  Clennam  &  Co.'s,  easily  to  be  found  by 
the  direction  set  forth  in  the  handbill;  and  see  the  place,  and 
ask  a  question  or  two  there,  himself. 

Having  dined  as  plainly  as  the  establishment  and  the 
courier  would  let  him,  and  having  taken  a  short  sleep  by  the 
fire  for  his  better  recovery  from  Mrs.  Finching,  he  set  out  in 
a  hackney-cabriolet  alone.  The  deep  bell  of  St.  Paul's  was 
striking  nine  as  he  passed  under  the  shadow  of  Temple  Bar, 
headless  and  forlorn  in  these  degenerate  days. 

As  he  approached  his  destination  through  the  by-streets 
and  water-side  ways,  that  part  of  London  seemed  to  him  an 
uglier  spot  at  such  an  hour  than  he  had  ever  supposed  it  to 
be.  Many  long  years  had  passed  since  he  had  seen  it  ;  he 
had  never  known  much  of  it  ;  and  it  wore  a  mysterious  and 
dismal  aspect  in  his  eyes.  So  powerfully  was  his  imagination 
impressed  by  it,  that  when  his  driver  stopped,  after  having 
asked  the  way  more  than  once,  and  said  to  the  best  of  his 
belief  this  was  the  gateway  they  wanted,  Mr.  Dorrit  stood 
hesitating,  with  the  coach-door  in  his  hand,  half  afraid  of 
the  dark  look  of  the  place. 

Truly,  it  looked  as  gloomy  that  night,  as  even  it  had  ever 
looked.  Two  of  the  handbills  were  posted  on  the  entrance 
wall,  one  on  either  side,  and  as  the  lamp  flickered  in  the 
night  air,  shadows  passed  over  them^  not  unlike  the  shadows 


LITTLE  DORRIT.         '  627 

of  fingers  following  the  lines.  A  watch  was  evidently  kept 
upon  the  place.  As  Mr.  Dorrit  paused,  a  man  passed  in  from 
over  the  way,  and  another  man  passed  out  from  some' dark 
corner  within  ;  and  both  looked  at  him  in  passing,  and  both 
remained  standing  about. 

As  there  was  only  one  house  in  the  inclosure,  there  was 
no  room  for  uncertainty,  so  he  went  up  the  steps  of  that 
house  and  knocked.  There  was  a  dim  light  in  the  two  win- 
dows on  the  first  floor.  The  door  gave  back  a  dreary,  vacant 
sound,  as  though  the  house  were  empty  ;  but  it  was  not,  for 
a  light  was  visible,  and  a  step  was  audible,  almost  directly. 
They  both  came  to  the  door,  and  a  chain  grated,  and  a 
woman  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  face  and  head  stood 
in  the  aperture. 

"  Who  is  it  ? "  said  the  woman. 

Mr.  Dorrit,  much  amazed  by  this  appearance,  replied  that 
he  was  from  Italy,  and  that  he  wished  to  ask  a  question 
relative  to  the  missing  person,  w^hom  he  knew. 

**  Hi  !  "  cried  the  woman,  raising  a  cracked  voice.  "  Jer- 
emiah !  " 

Upon  this,  a  dry  old  man  appeared,  whom  Mr.  Dorrit 
thought  he  identified  by  his  gaiters,  as  the  rusty  screw.  The 
woman  was  under  apprehensions  of  the  dry  old  man,  for  she 
whisked  her  apron  away  as  he  approached,  and  disclosed  a 
pale  affrighted  face.  "  Open  the  door,  you  fool,''  said  the 
old  man,  ^'  and  let  the  gentleman  in." 

Mr.  Dorrit,  not  without  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  toward 
his  driver  and  the  cabriolet,  walked  into  the  dim  hall. 
*'  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  "  you  can  ask  any  thing 
here  you  think  proper  ;  there  are  no  secrets  here,  sir." 

Before  a  reply  could  be  made,  a  strong  stern  voice,  though 
a  woman's,  called  from  above.     *'  Who  is  it  ?  " 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  returned  Jeremiah.  "  More  inquiries.  A 
gentleman  from  Italy." 

^'  Bring  him  up  here  !  " 

Mr.  Flintwinch  muttered,  as  if  he  deemed  that  unneces- 
sary ;  but  turning  to  Mr.  Dorrit,  said,  "  Mrs.  Clennam.  She 
will  do  as  she  likes.  I'll  show  you  the  way."  He  then  pre- 
ceded Mr.  Dorrit  up  the  blackened  staircase  ;  that  gentle- 
man, not  unnaturally  looking  behind  him  on  the  road,  saw 
the  woman  following,  with  her  apron  thrown  over  her  head 
again  in  her  former  ghastly  manner. 

Mrs.   Clennam  had  her  books  open  on  her  little  table. 


628  *         LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*'  Oh  !  *'  said  she  abruptly,  as  she  eyed  her  visitor  with  a 
steady  look.     "You  are  from  Italy,  sir,  are  you.     Well  ?" 

Mr.  I?Qrrit  was  at  a  loss  for  any  more  distinct  rejoinder 
at  the  moment  than  **  Ha — well  ?  " 

**  Where  is  this  missing  man  ?  Have  you  come  to  give  us 
information  where  he  is  ?     I  hope  you  have." 

*'  So  far  from  it,  I — hum — have  come  to  seek  informa- 
tion." 

**  Unfortunately  for  us,  there  is  none  to  be  got  here, 
riintwinch,  show  the  gentleman  the  handbill.  Give  him 
several  to  take  away.     Hold  the  light  for  him  to  read  it." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  did  as  he  was  directed,  and  Mr.  Dorrit 
read  it  through,  as  if  he  had  not  previously  seen  it  ;  glad 
enough  of  the  opportunity  of  collecting  his  presence  of 
mind,  which  the  air  of  the  house  and  of  the  people  in  it  had 
a  little  disturbed.  While  his  eyes  were  on  the  paper,  he 
felt  that  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Flintwinch  and  of  Mrs.  Clennam 
were  on  him.  He  found,  when  he  lookedTip,  that  this  sen- 
sation was  not  a  fanciful  one. 

"  Now  you  know  as  much,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  "  as  we 
know,  sir.     Is  Mr.  Blandois  a  friend  of  yours  ? " 

'^  No — a — hum — an  acquaintance,"  answered   Mr.  Dorrit. 

"  You  have  no  commission  from  him,  perhaps  ?  " 

"I  ?     Ha.     Certainly  not." 

The  searching  look  turned  gradually  to  the  floor,  after 
taking  Mr.  Flintwinch's  face  in  its  way.  Mr.  Dorrit,  dis- 
comfited by  finding  that  he  was  the  questioned  instead  of  the 
questioner,  applied  himself  to  the  reversal  of  that  unex- 
pected order  of  things.. 

"  I  am — ha — a  gentleman  of  property,  at  present  residing 
in  Italy  with  my  famil)^,  my  servants,  and — hum — my  rather 
large  establishment.  Being  in  London  for  a  short  time  on 
affairs  connected  with — ha — my  estate,  and  hearing  of  this 
strange  disappearance,  I  wished  to  make  myself  acquainted 
with  the  circumstances  at  first-hand,  because  there  is — ha, 
hum — an  English  gentleman  in  Italy  whom  I  shall  no  doubt 
see  on  my  return,  who  has  been  in  habits  of  close  and  daily 
intimacy  with  Monsieur  Blandois.  Mr.  Henry  Gowan. 
You  may  know  the  name." 

*'  Never  heard  of  it." 

Mrs.  Clennam  said  it,  and  Mr.  Flintwinch  echoed  it. 

*'  Wishing  to — ha — make  the  narrative  coherent  and  con- 
secutive to  him,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  ''may  I  ask — say  three 
questions.'*  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  629 

Thirty,  if  you  choose." 

^*  Have  you  known  Monsieur  Blandois  long  ? " 

"  Not  a  twelvemonth.  Mr.  Flintwinch,  here,  will  refer  to 
the  books  and  tell  you  when  and  by  whom,  at  Paris,  he  was 
introduced  to  us.  If  that,"  Mrs.  Clennam  added,  '^  should 
be  any  satisfaction  to  you.     It  is  poor  satisfaction  to  us." 

"  Have  you  seen  him  often  ? " 

'^  No.     Twice.     Once  before,  and " 

"  That  once,"  suggested  Mr.  Flintwinch. 

^^And  that  once." 

"  Pray,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  growing  fancy 
upon  him,  as  he  recovered  his  importance,  that  he  was  in 
some  superior  way  in  the  commission  of  the  peace  ;  **  pray, 
madam,  may  I  inquire,  for  the  greater  satisfaction  of  the  gen- 
tleman whom  I  have  the  honor  to — ha — retain,   or  protect, 

or  let  me  say  to — hum — know — to  know Was   Monsieur 

Blandois  here  on  business,  on  the  night  indicated  in  this 
printed  sheet  ?  " 

"  On  what  he  called  business,"  returned  Mrs.  Clennam. 

**  Is — ha — excuse  me — is  its  nature  to  be  communicated  ?  " 

"No." 

It  was  evidently  impracticable  to  pass  the  barrier  of  that 
reply. 

*'  The  question  has  been  asked  before,"  said  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam, "  and  the  answer  has  been  no.  We  don't  choose  to 
publish  our  transactions,  however  unimportant,  to  all  the 
town.     We  say  no." 

"  I  mean,  he  took  away  no  money  with  him,  for  example," 
said  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"  He  took  away  none  of  ours,  sir,  and  got  none  here." 

"  I  suppose,"  observed  Mr.  Dorrit,  glancing  from  Mrs. 
Clennam  to  Mr.  Flintwinch,  and  from  Mr.  Flintwinch  to 
Mrs.  Clennam,  "  you  have  no  way  of  accounting  to  yourself 
for  this  mystery  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  so  ?  "  rejoined  Mrs.  Clennam. 

Disconcerted  by  the  cold  and  hard  inquiry,  Mr.  Dorrit  was 
unable  to  assign  any  reason  for  his  supposing  so. 

"  I  account  for  it,  sir,"  she  pursued,  after  an  awkward- 
silence  on  Mr.  Dorrit's  part,  "  by  having  no  doubt  that  he  is 
traveling  somewhere,  or  hiding  somewhere." 

"  Do  you  know — ha — why  he  should  hide  anywhere  ?  " 

"  No." 

It  was  exactly  the  same  no  as  before,  and  put  another 
barrier  up. 


630  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  You  asked  me  if  I  accounted  for  the  disappearance  to 
myself,"  Mrs.  Clennam  sternly  reminded  him,  ''  not  if  I  ac- 
counted for  it  to  you.  I  do  not  pretend  to  account  for  it  to 
you,  sir.  I  understand  it  to  be  no  more  my  business  to  do 
that,  than  it  is  yours  to  require  that." 

Mr.  Dorrit  answered  with  an  apologetic  bend  of  his  head. 
As  he  stepped  back,  preparatory  to  saying  he  had  no  more 
to  ask,  he  could  not  but  observe  how  gloomily  and  fixedly 
she  sat  with  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  ground,  and  a  certain 
air  upon  her  of  resolute  waiting  ;  also,  how  exactly  the  self- 
same expression  was  reflected  in  Mr.  Flintwinch,  standing  at 
a  little  distance  from  her  chair,  with  his  eyes  also  on  the 
ground,  and  his  right  hand  softly  rubbing  his  chin. 

At  that  moment.  Mistress  Affery  (of  course,  the  woman 
with  the  apron)  dropped  the  candlestick  she  held,  and  cried 
out,  *'  There  !  Oh,  good  Lord  !  There  it  is  again.  Hark, 
Jeremiah  !     Now  !  " 

If  there  were  any  sound  at  all,  it  was  so  slight  that  she 
must  have  fallen  into  a  confirmed  habit  of  listening  for 
sounds  ;  but  Mr.  Dorrit  believed  he  did  hear  a  something, 
like  the  falling  of  dry  leaves.  The  woman's  terror  for  a 
very  short  space,  seemed  to  touch  the  three  ;  and  they  all 
listened. 

Mr.  Flintwinch  was  the  first  to  stir.  "Affery,  my  woman," 
said  he,  sidling  at  her  with  his  fists  clenched,  and  his  elbows 
quivering  with  impatience  to  shake  her,  "  You  are  at  your  old 
tricks.  You'll  be  walking  in  your  sleep  next,  my  woman,  and 
playing  the  whole  round  of  your  distempered  antics.  You 
must  have  some  physic.  When  I  have  shown  this  gentleman 
out,  I'll  make  you  up  such  a  comfortable  dose,  my  woman  ; 
such  a  comfortable  dose." 

It  did  not  appear  altogether  comfortable  in  expectation  to 
Mistress  Affery  ;  but  Jeremiah,  without  further  reference  to 
his  healing  medicine,  took  another  candle  from  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam's  table,  and  said,  "  Now,  sir  ;  shall  I  light  you  down  ? " 

Mr.  Dorrit  professed  himself  obliged,  and  went  down. 
Mr.  Flintwinch  shut  him  out  and  chained  him  out,  without 
a  moment's  loss  of  time.  He  was  again  passed  by  the  two 
men,  one  going  out,  and  the  other  coming  in  ;  got  into  the 
vehicle  he  had  left  waiting,  and  was  driven  away. 

Before  he  had  gone  far  the  driver  stopped  to  let  him  know 
that  he  had  given  his  name,  number,  and  address  to  the  two 
men,  on  their  joint  requisition  ;  and  also  the  address  at 
which  he  had  taken  Mr.  Dorrit  up,  the  hour  at  which  he  had 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  631 

been  called  from  his  stand,  and  the  way  by  which  he  had 
come.  This  did  not  make  the  night's  adventure  run  the  less 
hotly  in  Mr.  Dorrit's  mind,  either  when  he  sat  down  by  his 
fire  again,  or  when  he  went  to  bed.  All  night  he  haunted 
the  dismal  house,  saw  the  two  people  resolutely  waiting, 
heard  the  woman  with  her  apron  over  her  face  cry  out 
about  the  noise,  and  found  the  body  of  the  missing  Blandois, 
now  buried  in  a  cellar,  and  now  bricked  up  in  a  wall. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL 

A    CASTLE    IN    THE    AIR. 

Manifold  are  the  cares  of  wealth  and  state.  Mr.  Dorrit's 
satisfaction  in  remembering  that  it  had  not  been  necessary 
for  him  to  announce  himself  to  Clennam  &  Co.,  or  to  make 
an  allusion  to  his  having  ever  had  any  knowledge  of  the  in- 
trusive person  of  that  name,  had  been  damped  over-night, 
while  it  was  still  fresh,  by  a  debate  that  arose  within  him 
whether  or  no  he  should  take  the  Marshalsea  in  his  way  back, 
and  look  at  the  old  gate.  He  had  decided  not  to  do  so;  and 
had  astonished  the  coachman  by  being  very  fierce  with  him 
for  proposing  to  go  over  London  Bridge  and  recross  the 
river  by  Waterloo  Bridge — a  course  which  would  have  taken 
him  almost  within  sight  of  his  old  quarters.  Still,  for  all 
that,  the  question  had  raised  a  conflict  within  his  breast  ; 
and,  for  some  odd  reason,  or  no  reason,  he  was  vaguely  dis- 
satisfied. Even  at  the  Merdle  dinner-table  next  day,  he 
was  so  out  of  sorts  about  it,  that  he  continued  at  intervals  to 
turn  it  over  and  over,  in  a  manner  frightfully  inconsistent 
with  the  good  society  surrounding  him.  It  made  him  hot 
to  think  what  the  chief  butler's  opinion  of  him  would  have 
been  if  that  illustrious  personage  could  have  plumbed  with 
that  heavy  eye  of  his  the  stream  of  his  meditations. 

The  farewell  banquet  was  of  a  gorgeous  nature,  and 
wound  up  his-  visit  in  a  most  brilliant  manner.  Fanny  com- 
bined with  the  attractions  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  a  cer- 
tain weight  of  self-sustainment  as  if  she  had  been  married 
twenty  years.  He  felt  that  he  could  leave  her  with  a 
quiet  mind  to  tread  the  paths  of  distinction,  and  wished — 
but  without  abatement  of  patronage,  and  without  prejudice 
to  the  retiring  virtues  of  his  favorite  child — that  he  had  such 
another  daughter. 


632  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  My  dear,"  he  told  her  at  parting,  **  our  family  looks  to 
you  to — ha — assert  its  dignity  and — hum — maintain  its  im- 
portance.    I  know  you  will  never  disappoint  it.'* 

^*  No,  papa,"  said  Fanny,  "  you  may  rely  upon  that,  I 
think.  My  best  love  to  dearest  Amy,  and  I  will  write  to 
her  very  soon." 

"  Shall  I  convey  any  message  to — ha— any  body  else  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  an  insinuating  manner. 

"  Papa,"  said  Fanny,  before  whom  Mrs.  General  instantly 
loomed,  **  no,  1  thank  you.  You  are  very  kind,  pa,  but  I 
must  beg  to  be  excused.  There  is  no  other  message  to  send, 
I  thank  you,  dear  papa,  that  it  would  be  at  all  agreeable  to 
you  to  take." 

They  parted  in  an  outer  drawing-room,  where  only  Mr. 
Sparkler  waited  on  his  lady,  and  dutifully  bided  his  time  for 
shaking  hands.  When  Mr.  Sparkler  was  admitted  to  this 
closing  audience,  Mr.  Merdle  came  creeping  in  with  not  much 
more  appearance  of  arms  in  his  sleeves  than  if  he  had  been 
the  twin  brother  of  Miss  Biffin,  and  insisted  on  escorting  Mr. 
Dorrit  down  stairs.  All  Mr.  Dorrit's  protestations  being  in 
vain,  he  enjoyed  the  honor  of  being  accompanied  to  the  hall- 
door  by  this  distinguished  man,  who  (as  Mr.  Dorrit  told  him 
in  shaking  hands  on  the  step)  had  really  overwhelmed  him 
with  attentions  and  services,  during  this  memorable  visit. 
Thus  they  parted  ;  Mr.  Dorrit  entering  his  carriage  with  a 
swelling  breast,  not  at  all  sorry  that  his  courier, who  had  come 
to  take  leave  in  the  lower  regions,  should  have  an  opportu- 
nity of  beholding  the  grandeur  of  his  departure. 

The  aforesaid  grandeur  was  yet  full  upon  Mr.  Dorrit  when 
he  alighted  at  his  hotel.  Helped  out  by  the  courier  and 
some  half-dozen  of  the  hotel  servants,  he  was  passing  through 
the  hall  with  a  serene  magnificence,  when  lo  !  a  sight  pre- 
sented itself  that  struck  him  dumb  and  motionless.  John 
Chivery,  in  his  best  clothes,  with  his  tall  hat  under  his  arm, 
his  ivory-handled  cane  genteelly  embarrassing  his  deport- 
ment, and  a  bundle  of  cigars  in  his  hand  ! 

^^  Now,  young  man,"  said  the  porter.  *'  This  is  the  gentle- 
man. This  young  man  has  persisted  in  waiting,  sir,  saying 
you  would  be  glad  to  see  him." 

Mr.  Dorrit  glared  at  the  young  man,  choked,  and  said,  in 
the  mildest  of  tones,  *'  Ah  !  young  John  !  It  is  young  John, 
I  think;  is  it  not  ?  " 

"'Yes,  sir,"  returned  young  John. 

"  I — ha — thought  it  was  young  John  !  "   said  Mr.  Dorrit. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  633 

"The  young  man  may  come  up,"  turning  to  the  attendants 
as  he  passed  on;  '' oh,  yes,  he  may  come  up.  Let  young 
John  follow.     I  will  speak  to  him  above." 

Young  John  followed,  smiling,  and  much  gratified.  Mr. 
Dorrit's  rooms  were  reached.  Candles  were  lighted.  The 
attendants  withdrew. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  turning  round  upon  him  and 
seizing  him  by  the  collar  when  they  were  safely  alone. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  this  ?" 

The  amazement  and  horror  depicted  in  the  unfortunate 
John's  face — for  he  had  rather  expected  to  be  embraced  next 
— were  of  that  powerfully  expressive  nature  that  Mr.  Dorrit 
withdrew  his  hand,  and  merely  glared  at  him. 

"  How  dare  you  do  this  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  **  How  do 
you  presume  to  come  here  ?     How  dare  you  insult  me  ?  " 

"  I  insult  you,  sir  ?  "  cried  young  John.     "  Oh  !  '* 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Insult  me.  Your 
coming  here  is  an  affront,  an  impertinence,  an  audacity. 
You  are  not  wanted  here.  Who  sent  you  here  ?  What— 
ha — the  devil  do  you  do  here  ? " 

^' I  thought,  sir"  said  young  John,  with  as  pale  and 
shocked  a  face  as  ever  had  been  turned  to  Mr.  Dorrit's  in 
his  life — -even  in  his  college  life  :  "  I  thought,  sir,  you 
mightn't  object  to  have  the  goodness  to  accept  a  bundle " 

'^  Damn  your  bundle,  sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  irrepress- 
ible rage.     "  I — ^hum — don't  smoke." 

"  I  humbly  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     You  used  to." 

"Tell  me  that  again,"  cried  Mr.  Dorrit,  quite  beside  him- 
self, "  and  I'll  take  the  poker  to  you  !  " 

John  Chivery  backed  to  the  door. 

"  Stop,  sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Stop  !  Sit  down.  Con- 
found you,  sit  down  !  " 

John  Chivery  dropped  into  the  chair  nearest  the  door,  and 
Mr.  Dorrit  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ;  rapidly  at  first  ; 
then,  more  slowly.  Once,  he  went  to  the  window,  and  stood 
there  with  his  forehead  against  the  glass.  All  of  a  sudden, 
he  turned  and  said  : 

"  What  else  did  you  come  for,  sir  ?  " 

"  Nothing  else  in  the  world,  sir.  Oh,  dear  me  !  Only  to 
say,  sir,  that  I  hoped  you  was  well,  and  only  to  ask  if  Miss 
Amy  was  well?" 

"What's  that  to  you,  sir?"  retorted  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"It  nothing  to  me,  sir,  by  rights.  I  never  thought  of 
lessening  the  distance  betwixt  us,  I  am  sure.     I  know  it's  a 


634  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

liberty,  sir,  but  I  never  thought  you'd  have  taken  it  ill. 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,  sir,"  said  young  John,  with  emo- 
tion, "  in  my  poor  way,  I  am  too  proud  to  have  come,  I  as- 
sure you,  if  I  had  thought  so." 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  ashamed.  He  went  back  to  the  window, 
and  leaned  his  forehead  against  the  glass  for  some  time. 
When  he  turned,  he  had  his  handkerchief  in  his  hand,  and 
he  had  been  wiping  his  eye  with  it,  and  he  looked  tired  and 
ill. 

*  "  Young  John,  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  been  hasty  with 
you,  but — ha — some  remembrances  are  not  happy  remem- 
brances, and — hum — you  shouldn't  have  come." 

*^  I  feel  that  now,  sir,"  returned  John  Chivery  ;  "but  I 
didn't  before,  and  heavens  knows  I  meant  no  harm,  sir." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  I  am — hum — sure  of  that. 
Ha.     Give  me  your  hand,  young  John,  give  me  your  hand." 

Young  John  gave  it  ;  but  Mr.  Dorrit  had  driven  his  heart 
out  of  it,  and  nothing  could  change  his  face  now,  from  its 
white  shocked  look. 

"  There  !  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  slowly  shaking  hands  with  him. 
**  Sit  down  again,  young  John." 

*^  Thank  you,  sir — but  I'd  rather  stand." 

Mr.  Dorrit  sat  down  instead.  After  painfully  holding  his 
head  a  little  while,  he  turned  it  to  his  visitor,  and  said,  with 
an  effort  to  be  easy: 

"And  how  is  your  father,  young  John  ?  How — ha — how 
are  they  all,  young  John  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  They're  all  pretty  well,  sir.  They're 
not  anyways  complaining." 

"  Hum.  You  are  in  your — ha — old  business,  I  see,  John  ?" 
said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  glance  at  the  offending  bundle  he  had 
anathematized. 

"  Partly,  sir.  I  am  in  my,"  John  hesitated  a  little. 
" — father's  business  likewise." 

"  Oh  indeed  !"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Do  you — ha,  hum — go 
upon  the — ha " 

"  Lock,  sir  ?     Yes,  sir." 

"  Much  to  do,  John  !" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  we're  pretty  heavy  at  present.  I  don't  know 
how  it  is,  but  we  generally  are  pretty  heavy." 

"  At  this  time  of  the  year,  young  John  ?" 

"  Mostly  at  all  times  of  the  year,  sir.  I  don't  know  the 
time  that  makes  much  difference  to  us.  I  wish  you  good- 
'-^(ght,  sir." 


LI  I'TLE  DORRIT.  635 

"  Stay  a  moment,  John — ha — stay  a  moment.  Hum. 
Leave  me  the  cigars,  John,  I — ha — beg." 

**  Certainly,  sir."  John  put  them,  with  a  trembling  hand, 
,on  the  table. 

*^  Stay  a  moment,  young  John  ;  stay  another  moment.  It 
would  be  a — ha — gratification  to  me  to  send  a  little — hum — 
testimonial,  by  such  a  trusty  messenger,  to  be  divided  among 
— ha — hum — them — them — according  to  their  wants.  Would 
you  object  to  take  it,  John  ?" 

^'  Not  in  anyways,  sir.  There's  many  of  them,  I'm  sure, 
that  would  be  better  for  it." 

*'  Thank  you,  John.     I  — ha — I'll  write  it,  John." 

His  hand  shook  so  that  he  was  a  long  time  writing  it, 
and  wrote  in  a  tremulous  scrawl  at  last.  It  vvas  a  check  for 
one  hundred  pounds.  He  folded  it  up,  put  it  in  young  John's 
hand,  and  pressed  the  hand  in  his. 

**  I  hope  you'll — ha — overlook — hum — what  has  passed, 
John." 

^'  Don't  speak  of  it,  sir,  on  any  accounts.  I  don't  in  any- 
ways bear  malice,  I'm  sure." 

But  nothing,  while  John  was  there,  could  change  John's 
face  to  its  natural  color  and  expression,  or  restore  John's 
natural  manner. 

^^  And,  John,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  giving  his  hand  a  final  pres- 
sure, and  releasing  it,  "  I  hope  we — ha — agree  that  we  have 
spoken  together  in  confidence  ;  and  that  you  will  abstain,  in 
going  out,  from  saying  any  thing  to  any  one  that  might — 
hum — suggest  that — ha — once  I " 

"Oh  !  1  assure  you,  sir,"  returned  John  Chivery,  "in  my 
poor  humble  way,  sir,  I'm  too  proud  and  honorable  to  do  it, 
sir." 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  not  too  proud  and  honorable  to  listen  at 
the  door,  that  he  might  ascertain  for  himself  whether  John 
really  went  straight  out,  or  lingered  to  have  any  talk  with 
any  one.  There  was  no  doubt  that  he  went  direct  out  at  the 
door,  and  away  down  the  street  with  a  quick  step.  After  re- 
maining alone  for  an  hour,  Mr.  Dorrit  rang  for  the  courier, 
who  found  him  with  his  chair  on  the  hearth-rug,  sitting  with 
his  back  toward  him  and  his  face  to  the  fire.  "  You  can 
take  that  bundle  of  cigars  to  smoke  on  the  journey,  if  you 
like,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  careless  wave  of  his  hand. 
Ha — brought  by — hum — little  offering  from — ha — son  of  old 
tenant  of  mine." 

Next  morning's  sun  saw  Mr.  Dorrit's  equipage  upon  the 


636  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Dover  road,  where  every  red-jacketed  postilion  was  the  sign 
of  a  cruel  house,  established  for  the  unmerciful  plundering 
of  travelers.  The  whole  business  of  the  human  race,  be- 
tween London  and  Dover,  being  spoliation,  Mr.  Dorrit  was^ 
waylaid  at  Dartforth,  pillaged  at  Gravesend,  rifled  at  Roches-* 
ter,  fleeced  at  Sittingbourne,  and  sacked  at  Canterbury. 
However,  it  being  the  courier's  business  to  get  him  out  of 
the  hands  of  the  banditti,  the  courier  bought  him  off  at  every 
stage  ;  and  so  the  red-jackets  went  gleaming  merrily  along 
the  spring  landscape,  rising  and  falling  to  a  regular  measure, 
between  Mr.  Dorrit  in  his  snug  corner,  and  the  next  chalky 
rise  in  the  dusty  highway. 

Another  day's  sun  saw  him  at  Calais.  And  having  now 
got  the  channel  between  himself  and  JohnChivery,  he  began 
to  feel  safe,  and  to  find  that  the  foreign  air  was  lighter  to 
breathe  than  the  air  of  England. 

On  again  by  the  heavy  French  roads  for  Paris.  Having 
now  quite  recovered  his  equanimity,  Mr.  Dorrit,  in  his  snug 
corner,  fell  to  castle-building  as  he  rode  along.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  a  very  large  castle  in  hand.  All  day  long  he 
was  running  towers  up,  taking  towers  down,  adding  a  wing 
here,  putting  on  a  battlement  there,  looking  to  the  walls, 
strengthening  the  defenses,  giving  ornamental  touches  to  the 
interior,  making  in  all  respects  a  superb  castle  of  it.  His  pre- 
occupied face  so  clearly  denoted  the  pursuit  in  which  he  was 
engaged,  that  every  cripple  at  the  post-houses,  not  blind, 
who  shoved  his  little  battered  tin-box  in  at  the  carriage  win- 
dow for  charity  in  the  name  of  heaven,  charity  in  the  name 
of  our  lady,  charity  in  the  name  of  all  the  saints,  knew  as 
well  what  work  he  was  at,  as  their  countryman  Le  Brun  could 
have  known  it  himself,  though  he  had  made  that  English 
traveler  the  subject  of  a  special  physiognomical  treatise. 

Arrived  at  Paris,  and  resting  there  three  days,  Mr.  Dorrit 
strolled  much  about  the  streets  alone,  looking  in  at  the  shop- 
windows,and  particularly  the  jewelers'  windows.  Ultimately 
he  went  into  the  most  famous  jeweler's,  and  said  he  wanted 
to  buy  a  little  gift  for  a  lady. 

It  was  a  charming  little  woman  to  whom  he  said  it — a 
sprightly  little  woman,  dressed  in  perfect  taste,  who  came  out 
of  a  green  velvet  bower  to  attend  upon  him,  from  posting  up 
some  dainty  little  books  of  account  which  one  could  hardly 
suppose  to  be  ruled  for  the  entry  of  any  articles  more  com- 
mercial than  kisses,  at  a  dainty  little  shining  desk  which 
looked  in  itself  like  a  sweetmeat. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  637 

For  example,  then,  said  the  little  woman,  what  species  of 
gift  did  monsieui  desire  ?   A  love-gift  ? 

Mr.  Dorrit  smiled,  and  said,  Eh,  well  !  Perhaps.  What  did 
he  know  ?  It  was  always  possible  ;  the  sex  being  so  charm- 
ing.    Would  she  show  him  some  ? 

Most  willingly  said  the  little  woman.  Flattered  and 
enchanted  to  show  him  many.  But  pardon  !  To  begin  with, 
he  would  have  the  great  goodness  to  observe  that  there  were 
love-gifts,  and  there  were  nuptial  gifts.  For  example,  these 
ravishing  ear-rings  and  this  necklace,  so  superb  to  corre- 
spond, were  what  one  called  a  love- gift.  These  brooches 
and  these  rings,  of  a  beauty  so  gracious  and  celestial,  were 
what  one  called,  with  the  permission  of  monsieur,  nuptial 
gifts. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  a  good  arrangement,  Mr.  Dorrit  hinted, 
smiling,  to  purchase  both,  and  to  present  the  love-gift  first, 
and  to  finish  with  the  nuptial  offering  ? 

Ah  heaven  !  said  the  little  woman,  laying  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  of  her  two  little  hands  against  each  other,  that  would 
be  generous  indeed,  that  would  be  a  special  gallantry  !  And, 
without  doubt,  the  lady  so  crushed  with  gifts  would  find  them 
irresistible. 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  not  sure  of  that.  But,  for  example,  the 
sprightly  little  woman  was  very  sure  of  it,  she  said.  So  Mr. 
Dorrit  bought  a  gift  of  each  sort,  and  paid  handsomely  for 
it.  As  he  strolled  back  to  his  hotel  afterward,  he  carried 
his  head  higli  :  having  plainly  got  up  his  castle,  now,  to  a 
much  loftier  aliitude  than  the  two  square  towers  of  Notre- 
Dame. 

Building  away  with  all  his  might,  but  reserving  the  plans 
of  his  castle  exclusively  for  his  own  eye,  Mr.  Dorrit  posted 
away  for  Marseilles.  Building  on,  building  on,  busily,  busily, 
from  morning  to  night.  Falling  asleep,  and  leaving  great 
blocks  of  building  materials  dangling  in  the  air  ;  waking 
again,  to  resume  Avork  and  get  them  in  their  places.  What 
time  the  courier  in  the  rumble,  smoking  young  John's  best 
cigars,  left  a  little  thread  of  thin,  light  smoke  behind— per- 
haps as  he  built  a  castle  or  two,  with  stray  pieces  of  Mr. 
Dorrit's  money. 

Not  a  fortified  town  that  they  passed  in  all  their  journey 
was  as  strong,  not  a  cathedral  summit  was  as  high,  as  Mr. 
Dorrit's  castle„  Neither  the  Saone  nor  the  Rhone  sped  with 
the  swiftness  of  that  peerless  building  ;  nor  was  the  Medi- 
terranean deeper  than  its  foundations  ;  nor  were  the  distant 


638  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

landscapes  on  the  Cornice  road,  nor  the  hills  and  bay  of 
Genoa  the  superb,  more  beautiful.  Mr.  Dorrit  and  his  match- 
less castle  were  disembarked  among  the  dirty  white  houses 
and  dirtier  felons  of  Civita  Vecchia,  and  thence  scrambled 
on  to  Rome  as  they  could,  through  the  filth  that  festered  on 
the  way. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE   STORMING    OF    THE   CASTLE    IN    THE   AIR. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  full  four  hours,  and  it  was  later 
than  most  travelers  would  like  it  to  be  for  finding  themselves 
outside  the  walls  of  Rome,  when  Mr.  Dorrit's  carriage,  still 
on  its  last  wearisome  stage,  rattled  over  the  solitary  campagna. 
The  savage  herdsmen  and  the  fierce-looking  peasants,  who 
had  checkered  the  way  while  the  light  lasted,  had  all  gone 
down  with  the  sun,  and  left  the  wilderness  blank.  At  some 
turns  of  the  road,  a  pale  flare  on  the  horizon,  like  an  exhala- 
tion from  the  ruin-sown  land,  showed  that  the  city  was  yet 
far  off ;  but  this  poor  relief  was  rare  and  short-lived.  The  car- 
riage dipped  down  again  into  a  hollow  of  the  black  dry  sea, 
and  for  a  long  time  there  was  nothing  visible  save  its  petrified 
swell  and  the  gloomy  sky. 

Mr.  Dorrit,  though  he  had  his  castle-building  to  engage 
his  mind,  could  not  be  quite  easy  in  that  desolate  place.  He 
was  far  more  curious,  in  every  swerve  of  the  carriage,  and 
every  cry  of  the  postilions,  than  he  had  been  since  he  quitted 
London.  The  valet  on  the  box  evidently  quaked.  The  cou- 
rier in  the  rumble  was  not  altogether  comfortable  in  his  mind. 
As  often  as  Mr.  Dorrit  let  down  the  glass  and  looked  back 
at  him  (which  was  very  often),  he  saw  him  smoking  John 
Chivery  out,  it  is  true,  but  still  generally  standing  up  the  while 
.  and  looking  about  him,  like  a  man  who  had  his  suspicions, 
and  kept  upon  his  guard.  Then  would  Mr.  Dorrit,  pulling 
up  the  glass  again,  reflect  that  those  postilions  were  cut-throat 
looking  fellows,  and  that  he  would  have  done  better  to  have 
slept  at  Civita  Vecchia,  and  have  started  betimes  in  the 
morning.  But,  for  all  this,  he  worked  at  his  castle  in  the  in- 
tervals. 

And  now,  fragments  of  ruinous  inclosure,  yawning  window 
gap  and  crazy  wall,  deserted  houses,  leaking  wells,  broken 
water-tanks,  sjoectr^l  cvpress-trees,  patches  of  tangled  vine, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  639 

and  the  changing  of  the  track  to  along,  irregular,  disordered 
lane,  where  every  thing  was  crumbling  away,  from  the  un- 
sightly buildings  to  the  jolting  road— now,these  objects  showed 
that  they  were  nearing  Rome.  And  now,  a  sudden  twist  and 
stoppage  of  the  carriage  inspired  Mr.  Dorrit  with  the  mistrust 
that  the  brigand  moment  was  come  for  twisting  him  into 
a  ditch  and  robbing  him  ;  until,  letting  down  the  glass  again 
and  looking  out,  he  perceived  himself  assailed  by  nothing 
worse  than  a  funeral  procession,  which  came  mechanically 
chanting  by,  with  an  indistinct  show  of  dirty  vestments, 
lurid  torches,  swinging  censers,  and  a  great  cross  borne  before 
a  priest.  He-was  an  ugly  priest  by  torchlight  ;  of  a  lowering 
aspect,  with  an  overhanging  brow;  and  as  his  eyes  met  those 
of  Mr.  Dorrit,  looking  bareheaded  out  of  the  carriage,  his  lips 
moving  as  they  chanted,  seemed  to  threaten  that  important 
traveler- likewise  the  action  of  his  hand  which  was  in  fact  his 
manner  l^f  returning  the  traveler's  salutation,  seemed  to  come 
in  aid  of  that  menace.  So  thought  Mr.  Dorrit,  made  fanci- 
ful by  the  weariness  of  building  and  traveling,  as  the  priest 
drifted  past  him,  and  the  procession  straggled  away,  taking 
its  dead  along  with  it.  Upon  their  so-different  way  went 
Mr.  Dorrit's  company  too;  and  soon  with  their  coach-load  of 
luxuries  from  the  two  great  capitals  of  Europe,  they  were 
(like  the  Goths  reversed)  beating  at  the  gates  of  Rome. 

Mr.  Dorrit  was  not  expected  by  his  own  people  that  night. 
He  had  been  ;  but  they  had  given  him  up  until  to-morrow, 
not  doubting  that  it  was  later  than  he  would  care,  in  those 
parts,  to  be  out.  Thus,  when  his  equipage  stopped  at  his 
own  gate,  no  one  but  the  porter  appeared  to  receive  him. 
Was  Miss  Dorrit  from  home  ?  he  asked.  She  was  within. 
Good,  said  Mr.  Dorrit  to  the  assembling  servants  ;  let  them 
keep  where  they  are;  let  them  help  to  unload  the  carriage  ; 
he  would  find  Miss  Dorrit  for  himself. 

So  he  went  up  his  grand  staircase,  slowly,  and  tired,  and 
looked  into  various  chambers  which  were  empty,  until  he  saw 
a  light  in  a  small  ante-room.  It  was  a  curtained  nook,  like  a 
tent,  within  two  other  rooms  ;  and  it  looked  warm  and  bright 
in  color,  as  he  approached  it  through  the  dark  avenue  they 
made. 

There  was  a  draped  doorway,  but  no  door;  as  he  stopped 
here,  looking  in  unseen,  he  felt  a  pang.  Surely  not  like  jeal- 
ousy ?  For  why  like  jealousy  ?  There  were  only  his  daugh- 
ter and  his  brother  there  :  he,  with  his  chair  drawn  to  the 
hearth,  enjoying  the  warmth  of  the  evening  wood  fire  ;  she, 


640  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

seated  at  a  little  table,  busied  with  some  embroidery  work. 
Allowing  for  the  great  difference  in  the  still-life  of  the  picture 
the  figures  were  much  the  same  as  of  old  ;  his  brother  being 
sufficiently  like  himself  to  represent  himself,  for  a  moment, 
in  the  composition.  So  had  he  sat  many  a  night,  over  a  coal 
fire  far  away;  so  had  she  sat  devoted  to  him.  Yet  surely 
there  was  nothing  to  be  jealous  of  in  the  old  miserable  pov- 
erty.    Whence,  then,  the  pang  in  his  heart  ? 

"  Do  you  know,  uncle,  I  think  you  are  growing  young 
again  ? " 

Her  uncle  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  Since  when,  my 
dear  ;  since  when  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  returned  Little  Dorrit,  plying  her  needle,  "  that 
you  have  been  growing  younger  for  weeks  past.  So  cheerful, 
uncle,  and  so  ready  and  so  interested  !  " 

**  My  dear  child — all  you." 

"  All  me,  uncle  ?  "  ^ 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  have  done  me  a  world  of  good.  You 
have  been  so  considerate  of  me,  and  so  tender  with  me,  and 
so  delicate  in  trying  to  hide  your  attentions  from  me,  that  I 
— well,  well,  well  !     It's  treasured  up,  my  darling,  treasured 

^^ There's  nothing  in  it  but  your  own  fresh  fancy,  uncle," 
said  Little  Dorrit,  cheerfully. 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  murmured  the  old  man.  "  Thank 
God!" 

She  paused  for  an  instant  in  her  work  to  look  at  him,  and 
her  look  revived  that  former  pain  in  her  father's  breast  ;  in 
his  poor  weak  breast,  so  full  of  contradictions,  vacillations, 
inconsistencies,  the  little  peevish  perplexities  of  this  igno- 
rant life,  mists  which  the  morning  without  a  night  only  can 
clear  away. 

''  I  have  been  freer  with  you,  you  see,  my  dove,"  said  the 
old  man,  '*  since  we  have  been  alone.  I  say,  alone,  for  I 
don't  count  Mrs.  General  ;  I  don't  care  for  her  ;  she  has 
jiothing  to  do  with  me.  But  I  know  Fanny  was  impatient  of 
me.  And  I  don't  wonder  at  it,  or  complain  of  it,  for  I  am 
sensible  that  I  must  be  in  the  way,  though  I  try  to  keep  out 
of  it  as  well  as  I  can.  I  know  I  am  not  fit  company  for  our 
company.  My  brother  William,"  said  the  old  man,  admir- 
ingly, "  is  fit  company  for  monarchs  ;  but  not  so  your  uncle, 
my  dear.  Frederick  Dorrit  is  no  credit  to  William  Dorrit, 
and  he  knows  it  quite  well.  Ah  !  Why,  here's  your  father, 
Amy  !  My  dear  William,  welcome  back  !  My  beloved 
brother,  I  am  rcjoircri  to  see  you  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  641 

(Turning  his  head  in  speaking,  he  had  caught  sight  of  him 
as  he  stood  in  the  doorway.) 

Little  Dorrit,  with  a  cry  of  pleasure,  put  her  arms  about 
her  father's  neck,  and  kissed  him  again  and  again.  Her 
father  was  a  little  impatient,  and  a  little  querulous.  "  I  am 
glad  to  find  you  at  last.  Amy,"  he  said.  ^'  Ha.  Really  I  am 
glad  to  find — hum — any  one  to  receive  me  at  last.  I  appear 
to  have  been— ha — so  little  expected,  that  upon  my  word  I 
began — ha,  hum — to  think  it  might  be  right  to  offer  an 
apology  for — ha — taking  the  liberty  of  coming  back  at 
all." 

*^  It  was  so  late,  my  dear  William,'*  said  his  brother,  **  that 
we  had  given  you  up  for  to-night." 

"  I  am  stronger  than  you,  dear  Frederick,"  returned  his 
brother,  with  an  elaboration  of  fraternity  in  which  there  was 
severity  ;  "  and  I  hope  I  can  travel  without  detriment  at — 
ha — any  hour  I  choose." 

"  Surely,  surely,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  misgiving  that 
he  had  given  offense.     "Surely,  William." 

*^  Thank  you.  Amy,"  pursued  Mr.  Dorrit,  as  she  helped 
him  to  put  off  his  wrappers,  "  I  can  do  it  without  assistance. 
I — ha — need  not  trouble  you.  Amy.  Could  I  have  a  morsel 
of  bread  and  a  glass  of  wine,  or — hum — would  it  cause  too 
much  inconvenience  ? " 

**  Dear  father,  you  shall  have  supper  in  a  very  few 
minutes." 

"  Thank  you,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  a  reproach- 
ful frost  upon  him  ;  "  I — ha — am  afraid  I  am  causing  incon- 
venience.    Hum.     Mrs.  General  pretty  well  ? " 

"  Mrs.  General  complained  of  a  headache,  and  of  being 
fatigued  ;  and  so  when  we  gave  you  up,  she  went  to  bed, 
dear." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Dorrit  thought  that  Mrs.  General  had  done 
well  in  being  overcome  by  the  disappointment  of  his  not  ar- 
riving. At  any  rate,  his  face  relaxed,  and  he  said,  with  ob- 
vious satisfaction,  "  Extremely  sorry  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Gen- 
eral is  not  well." 

During  this  short  dialogue,  his  daughter  had  been  observ- 
ant of  him,  with  something  more  than  her  usual  interest.  It 
would  seem  as  though  he  had  a  changed  or  worn  appearance 
in  her  eyes,  and  he  perceived  and  resented  it ;  for,  he  said, 
with  renewed  peevishness,  when  he  had  divested  himself  of 
his  traveling -cloak,  and  had  come  to  the  fire  : 

"  Amy,  what  are  you  looking  at  ?     What  do  you  see  in  me 


642  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

that  causes  you  to — ha — concentrate  your  solicitude  on  me 
in  that — hum — very  particular  manner  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  it,  father  ;  I  beg  your  pardon.  It  glad- 
dens my  eyes  to  see  you  again  ;  that's  all." 

''  Don't  say  that's  all,  because — ha — that's  not  all.  You 
— hum — you  think,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  an  accusatory  em- 
phasis, "  that  I  am  not  looking  well." 

'*  I  thought  you  looked  a  little  tired,  love." 

*'  Then  you  are  mistaken,"  said,  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Ha,  I  am, 
not  tired.  Ha,  hum.  I  am  very  much  fresher  than  I  was 
when  I  went  away." 

He  was  so  inclined  to  be  angry,  that  she  said  nothing 
more  in  her  justification,  but  remained  quietly  beside  him 
embracing  his  arm.  As  he  stood  thus,  with  his  brother  on 
the  other  side,  he  fell  into  a  heavy  doze,  of  not  a  minute's 
duration,  and  awoke  with  a  start. 

"  Frederick,"  he  said,  turning  on  his  brother  :  ^'  I  recom- 
mend you  to  go  to  bed  immediately." 

^^  No,  William.     I'll  wait  and  see  you  sup." 

"  Frederick,"  he  retorted,  '^  I  beg  you  to  go  to  bed.  I — 
ha — make  it  a  personal  request  that  you  go  to  bed.  You 
ought  to  have  been  in  bed  long  ago.     You  are  very  feeble." 

'^  Hah!  "  said  the  old  man,  who  had  no  wish  but  to  please 
him.     ^' Well,  well,  well  !     I  dare  say  I  am." 

*'  My  dear  Frederick,"  returned  Mr.  Dorrit,  with  an  aston- 
ishing superiority  to  his  brother's  failing  powers,  "  there  can 
be  no  doubt  of  it.  It  is  painful  to  me  to  see  you  so  weak. 
Ha.  It  distresses  me.  Hum.  I  don't  find  you  looking  at 
all  well.  You  are  not  fit  for  this  sort  of  thing.  You  should 
be  more  careful,  you  should  be  very  careful." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  bed  ?  "  asked  Frederick. 

'*  Dear  Frederick,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  ''  do,  I  adjure  you  ! 
Good-night,  brother.  I  hope  you  will  be  stronger  to-morrow. 
I  am  not  at  all  pleased  with  your  looks.  Good-night,  dear 
fellow.''  After  dismissing  his  brother  in  this  gracious  way, 
he  fell  into  a  doze  again,  before  the  old  man  was  well  out  of 
the  room  :  and  he  would  have  tumbled  forward  upon  the 
logs,  but  for  his  daughter's  restraining  hold. 

"  Your  uncle  wanders  very  much.  Amy,"  he  said,  when  he 
was  thus  aroused.  ''  He  is  less~ha— coherent,  and  his  con- 
versation is  more— hum— broken,  than  I  have — ha,  hum- 
ever  known.  Has  he  had  any  illness  since  I  have  been 
gone  ?" 

''  No,  father." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  643 

"  You — ha — see  a  great  change  in  him,  Amy  ?  " 

"I  had  not  observed  it,  dear." 

"  Greatly  broken,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  Greatly  broken. 
My  poor,  affectionate,  failing  Frederick  !  Ha.  Even  taking 
into  account  what  he  was  before,  he  is — hum — sadly  broken!" 

His  supper,  which  was  brough  t  to  him  there,  and  spread 
Upon  the  little  table  where  he  had  seen  her  working,  diverted 
his  attention.  She  sat  at  his  side  as  in  the  days  that  were 
gone,  for  the  first  time  since  those  days  ended.  They  were 
alone,  and  she  helped  him  to  his  meat  and  poured  out  his 
drink  for  him,  as  she  had  used  to  do  in  the  prison.  All 
this  happened  now,  for  the  first  time  since  their  accession  to 
wealth.  She  was  afraid  to  look  at  him  much,  after  the  of- 
fense he  had  taken  ;  but  she  noticed  two  occasions  in  the 
course  of  his  meal,  when  he  all  of  a  sudden  looked  at  her, 
and  looked  about  him,  as  if  the  association  was  so  strong 
that  he  needed  assurance  for  his  sense  of  sight  that  they 
were  not  in  the  old  prison-room.  Both  times  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  head  as  if  he  missed  his  old  black  cap — though 
it  had  been  ignominiously  given  away  in  the  Mashalsea,  and 
had  never  got  free  to  that  hour,  but  still  hovered  above  the 
yards  on  the  head  of  his  successor. 

He  took  very  little  supper,  but  was  a  long  time  over  it, 
and  often  reverted  to  his  brother's  declining  state.  Though 
he  expressed  the  greatest  pity  for  him,  he  was  almost  bitter 
upon  him.  He  said  that  poor  Frederick — ha,  hum — driveled. 
There  was  no  other  word  to  express  it  ;  driveled.  Poor 
fellow  !  It  was  melancholy  to  reflect  what  Amy  must  have 
undergone  from  the  excessive  tediousness  of  his  society — 
wandering  and  babbling  on — if  it  had  not  been  for  the  relief 
she  had  had  in  Mrs.  General.  Extremely  sorry,  he  then  re- 
peated with  his  former  satisfaction,  that  that — ha — superior 
woman  was  poorly. 

Little  Dorrit,  in  her  watchful  love,  would  have  remembered 
the  lightest  thing  he  said  '^r  did  that  night,  though  she  had 
had  no  subsequent  reason  to  recall  that  night.  She  always 
remembered,  that  when  he  looked  about  him  under  the  strong 
influence  of  the  old  association,  he  tried  to  keep  it  out  of  her 
mind,  and  perhaps  out  of  his  own  too,  by  immediately  expa- 
tiating on  the  great  riches  and  great  company  that  had  encom- 
passed him  in  his  absence,  and  on  the  lofty  position  he  and 
his  family  had  to  sustain.  Nor  did  she  fail  to  recall  that 
there  were  two  under  currents,  side  by  side,  pervading  all  his 
discourse  and  all  his  manner  ;  one  showing  her  how  well  he 


644  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

had  got  on  without  her,  and  how  independent  he  was  of  her  ; 
the  other,  in  a  fitful  and  unintelligible  way  almost  complain- 
ing of  her,  as  if  it  had  been  possible  that  she  had  neglected 
him  while  he  was  away. 

His  telling  her  of  the  glorious  state  that  Mr.  Merdle  kept, 
and  the  court  that  bowed  before  him,  naturally  brought  him 
to  Mrs.  Merdle.  So  naturally  indeed,  that  although  there 
was  an  unusual  want  of  sequence  in  the  greater  part  of  his 
remarks,  he  passed  to  her  at  once  and  asked  how  she  was. 

*'  She  is  very  well.     She  is  going  away  next  week." 

*'  Home  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"After  a  few  weeks'  stay  upon  the  road." 

"  She  will  be  a  vast  loss  here,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit.  "  A  vast 
— ha — acquisition  at  home.  To  Fanny,  and  to — hum — the 
rest  of  the — ha — great  world." 

Little  Dorrit  thought  of  the  competition  that  was  to  be 
entered  upon,  and  assented  very  softly. 

"  Mrs.  Merdle  is  going  to  have  a  great  farewell  assembly, 
dear,  and  a  dinner  before  it.  She  has  been  expressing  her 
anxiety  that  you  should  return  in  time.  She  has  invited 
both  you  and  me  to  her  dinner." 

"  She  is — ha — very  kind.     When  is  the  day  ?  " 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Write  round  in  the  morning,  and  say  that  I  have 
returned,  and  shall — hum— be  delighted." 

"  May  I  walk  with  you  up  the  stairs  to  your  room, 
dear?" 

"  No  !  "  he  answered,  looking  angrily  round  ;  for  he  was 
moving  away,  as  if  forgetful  of  leave-taking.  "  You  may 
not.  Amy.  I  want  no  help.  I  am  your  father,  not  your 
infirm  uncle  !  "  He  checked  himself,  as  abruptly  as  he  had 
broken  into  this  reply,  and  said,  "  You  have  not  kissed  me, 
Amy.  Good-night,  my  dear  !  We  must  marry — ha — we 
must  msLTTy  yoUj  now."  With  that  he  went,  more  slowly  and 
more  tired,  up  the  staircase  to  his  rooms,  and,  almost  as  soon 
as  he  got  there,  dismissed  his  valet.  His  next  care  was  to 
look  about  him  for  his  Paris  purchases,  and,  after  opening 
their  cases  and  carefully  surveying  them,  to  put  them  away 
under  lock  and  key.  After  that,  what  with  dozing  and  what 
with  castle-building,  he  lost  himself  for  a  long  time,  so  that 
there  was  a  touch  of  morning  on  the  eastward  rim  of  the 
desolate  campagna  when  he  crept  to  bed. 

Mrs.  General  sent  up  her  compliments  in  good  time  next 
day,  and  hoped  he  had   rested  well  after  his  fatiguing  jour- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  645 

ney.  He  sent  down  his  compliments,  and  begged  to  inform 
Mrs.  General  that  he  had  rested  very  well  indeed,  and  was  in 
high  condition.  Nevertheless,  he  did  not  come  forth  from 
his  own  rooms  until  late  in  the  afternoon  ;  and,  although  he 
then  caused  himself  to  be  magnificently  arrayed  for  a  drive 
with  Mrs.  General  and  his  daughter,  his  appearance  was 
scarcely  up  to  his  description  of  himself. 

As  the  family  had  no  visitors  that  day,  its  four  members 
dined  alone  together.  He  conducted  Mrs.  General  to  the 
seat  at  his  right  hand,  with  immense  ceremony  ;  and  Little 
Dorrit  could  not  but  notice  as  she  followed  with  her  uncle, 
both  that  he  was  again  elaborately  dressed,  and  that  his 
manner  toward  Mrs.  General  was  very  particular.  The  per- 
fect formation  of  that  accomplished  lady's  surface  rendered 
it  difficult  to  displace  an  atom  of  its  genteel  glaze,  but  Little 
Dorrit  thought  she  descried  a  slight  thaw  of  triumph  in  a 
corner  of  her  frosty  eye. 

Notwithstanding  what  may  be  called  in  these  pages  the 
pruney  and  prismatic  nature  of  the  family  banquet,  Mr. 
Dorris  several  times  fell  asleep  while  it  was  in  progress.  His 
fits  of  dozing  were  as  sudden  as  they  had  been  overnight, 
and  were  as  short  and  profound.  When  the  first  of  these 
slumberings  seized  him  Mrs.  General  looked  almost  amazed; 
but,  on  each  recurrence  of  the  symptoms,  she  told  her  polite 
beads,  papa,  potatoes,  poultry,  prunes  and  prism  ;  and  by 
dint  of  going  through  that  infallible  performance  very  slowly, 
appeared  to  finish  her  rosary  at  about  the  same  time  as  Mr. 
Dorrit  started  from  his  sleep. 

He  was  again  painfully  aware  of  a  somnolent  tendency  in 
Frederick  (which  had  no  existence  out  of  his  own  imagina- 
tion), and  after  dinner,  when  Frederick  had  withdrawn, 
privately  apologized  to  Mrs.  General  for  the  poor  man. 
^' The  most  estimable  and  affectionate  of  brothers,"  he  said, 
"  but — ha,  hum — broken  up,  altogether.  Unhappily  declin- 
ing fast." 

'^  Mr.  Frederick,  sir,"  quoth  Mrs.  General,  "  is  habitu- 
ally absent  and  drooping,  but  let  us  hope  it  is  not  so  bad  as 
that." 

Mr.  Dorrit,  however,  was  determined  not  to  let  him  off. 
''  Fast  declining,  madam.  A  wreck.  A  ruin.  Moldering 
away  before  our  eyes.     Hum.     Good  Frederick  !  " 

^'  You  left  Mrs.  Sparkler  quite  well  and  happy,  I  trust  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  General,  after  heaving  a  cool  sigh  for  Frederick. 

"  Surrounded,"  replied  Mr.  Dorrit,  '*by — ha — all  that  can 


646  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

charm  the  taste,  and — hum— elevate  the  mind.  Happy,  ray 
dear  madame,  in  a — hum — husband." 

Mrs.  General  was  a  little  fluttered  ;  seeming  delicately  to 
put  the  word  away  with  her  gloves,  as  if  there  were  no  know- 
ing what  it  might  lead  to. 

"Fanny,"  Mr.  Dorrit  continued.  '*  Fanny,  Mrs.  General, 
has  high  qualities.  Ha.  Ambition  —  hum  —  purpose, 
consciousness  of  —  ha  —  position,  determination  to  sup- 
port that  position  —  ha,  hum  —  grace,  beauty  and  native 
nobility." 

"  No  doubt,"  said  Mrs.  General  (with  a  little  extra  stiff- 
ness). 

"  Combined  with  these  qualities,  madame,**  said  Mr.  Dorrit, 
"  Fanny  has  —  ha  —  manifested  one  blemish  which  has  made 
me  —  hum  —  made  me  uneasy,  and  —  ha — I  must  add, 
angry ;  but  which  I  trust  may  now  be  considered  at  an  end, 
even  as  to  herself,  and  which  is  undoubtedly  at  an  end  as  to 
—  ha  —  others." 

'^  To  what,  Mr.  Dorrit,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  with  her 
gloves  again  somewhat  excited,  "  can  you  allude  ?  I  am  at 
a  loss  to " 

"  Do  not  say  that,  my  dear  madam,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Dorrit. 

Mrs.  General's  voice,  as  it  died  away,  pronounced  the 
words,  "  at  a  loss  to  imagine." 

After  which,  Mr.  Dorrit  was  seized  with  a  doze  for  about 
a  minute,  out  of  which  he  sprang  with  spasmodic  nimble- 
ness. 

'^  I  refer,  Mrs.  General,  to  that — ha — strong  spirit  of  op- 
position, or — hum — I  might  say — ha — jealousy  in  Fanny, 
which  has  occasionally  risen  against  the — ha — sense  I  enter- 
tain of — hum — the  claims  of — ha — the  lady  with  whom  I 
have  now  the  honor  of  communing." 

"  Mr.  Dorrit,"  returned  Mrs.  General,  "  is  ever  but  too 
obliging,  ever  but  too  appreciative.  If  there  have  been 
moments  when  I  have  imagined  that  Miss  Dorrit  has  indeed 
resented  the  favorable  opinion  Mr.  Dorrit  has  formed  of  my 
services,  I  have  found,  in  that  only  too  high  opinion,  my  con- 
solation and  recompense." 

"Opinion  of  your  services,  madam  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dorrit. 

"  Of,"  Mrs.  General  repeated,  in  an  elegantly  impressive 
manner,  "  my  services." 

"  Of  your  services  alone,  dear  madame  ? "  said  Mr. 
Dorrit. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  647 

"  I  presume/*  retorted  Mrs.  General,  in  her  former  im- 
pressive manner,  *^  of  my  services  alone.  For  to  what  else," 
said  Mrs.  General,  with  a  slightly  interrogative  action  of  her 
gloves,  ^'  could  I  impute " 

"  To — ha — yourself,  Mrs.  General.  Ha,  hum.  To  your- 
self and  your  merits,"  was  Mr.  Dorrit's  rejoinder. 

^' Mr.  Dorrit  will  pardon  me,"  said  Mrs.  General,  "if  I 
remark  that  this  is  not  a  time  or  place  for  the  pursuit  of  the 
present  conversation.  Mr.  Dorrit  will  excuse  me  if  I  remind 
him  that  Miss  Dorrit  is  in  the  adjoining  room,  and  is  visible 
to  myself  while  1  utter  her  name.  Mr.  Dorrit  will  forgive 
me  if  I  observe  that  I  am  agitated,  and  that  I  find  there  are 
moments  when  weaknesses  I  supposed  myself  to  have  sub- 
dued, return  with  redoubled  power.  Mr.  Dorrit  will  allow 
me  to  withdraw." 

"  Hum.  Perhaps  we  may  resume  this — ha — interesting 
conversation,"  said  Mr.  Dorrit,  "  at  another  time  ;  unless  it 
should  be,  what  I  hope  it  is  not — hum — in  any  way  disagree- 
able to — ha — Mrs.  General." 

"  Mr.  Dorrit,"  said  Mrs.  General,  casting  down  her  eyes 
as  she  rose  with  a  bend,  "  must  ever  claim  my  homage  and 
obedience." 

Mrs.  General  then  took  herself  off  in  a  stately  way,  and 
not  with  that  amount  of  trepidation  upon  her  which  might 
have  been  expected  in  a  less  remarkable  woman.  Mr.  Dorrit, 
who  had  conducted  his  part  of  the  dialogue  with  a  certain 
majestic  and  admiring  condescension — much  as  some  people 
may  be  seen  to  conduct  themselves  in  church,  and  to  per- 
form their  part  in  the  service — appeared,  on  the  whole,  very 
well  satisfied  with  himself  and  with  Mrs.  General  too.  On 
the  return  of  that  lady  to  tea,  she  had  touched  herself  up 
with  a  little  powder  and  pomatum,  and  was  not  without 
moral  enhancement  likewise  ;  the  latter  showing  itself  in 
much  sweet  patronage  of  manner  toward  Miss  Dorrit,  and  in 
an  air  of  as  tender  interest  in  Mr.  Dorrit  as  was  consistent 
with  rigid  propriety.  At  the  close  of  the  evening  when  she 
rose  to  retire,  Mr.  Dorrit  took  her  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  lead  her  out  into  the  Piazza  of  the  People  to  walk  a 
minute  by  moonlight,  and  with  great  solemnity  conducted 
her  to  the  room  door,  where  he  raised  her  knuckles  to  his 
lips.  Having  parted  from  her  with  what  may  be  conject- 
ured to  have  been  a  rather  bony  kiss,  of  a  cosmetic  flavor, 
he  gave  his  daughter  his  blessing,  graciously.     And  having 


648  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

thus  hinted  that  there  was  something  remarkable  in  the  windy 
he  again  went  to  bed. 

He  remained  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  chamber  next 
morning  ;  but,  early  in  the  afternoon,  sent  down  his  best  com- 
pliments to  Mrs.  General,  by  Mr.  Tinkler,  and  begged  she 
would  accompany  Miss  Dorrit  on  an  airing  without  him.  His 
daughter  was  dressed  for  Mr.  Merdle's  dinner  before  he  ap- 
peared. He  then  presented  himself,  in  a  refulgent  condition 
as  to  his  attire,  but  looking  indefinably  shrunken  and  old. 
However,  as  he  was  plainly  determined  to  be  angry  with  her 
if  she  so  much  as  asked  him  how  he  was,  she  only  ventured 
to  kiss  his  cheek,  before  accompanying  him  to  Mrs.  Merdle's 
with  an  anxious  heart. 

The  distance  that  they  had  to  go  was  very  short,  but  he 
was  at  his  building  work  again  before  the  carriage  had  half 
traversed  it.  Mrs.  Merdle  received  him  with  great  distinc- 
tion ;  the  bosom  was  in  admirable  preservation,  and  on  the 
best  terms  with  itself  ;  the  dinner  was  very  choice  ;  and  the 
company  was  very  select. 

It  was  principally  English  ;  saving  that  it  comprised  the 
usual  French  count  and  the  usual  Italian  marchese — decora- 
tive social  milestones,  always  to  be  found  in  certain  places, 
and  varying  very  little  in  appearance.  The  table  was  long, 
and  the  dinner  was  long  ;  and  Little  Dorrit,  overshadowed 
by  a  large  pair  of  black  whiskers  and  a  large  white  cravat, 
lost  sight  of  her  father  altogether,  until  a  servant  put  a  scrap 
of  paper  in  her  hand,  with  a  whispered  request  from  Mrs. 
Merdle  that  she  would  read  it  directly.  Mrs.  Merdle  had 
written  on  it  in  pencil,  ''  Pray  come  and  speak  to  Mr.  Dorrit, 
I  doubt  if  he  is  well." 

She  was  hurrying  to  him,  unobserved,  when  he  got  up  out 
of  his  chair,  and  leaning  over  the  table  called  to  her,  suppos- 
ing her  to  be  still  in  her  place  : 

'*  Amy,  Amy,  my  child  !  " 

The  action  was  so  unusual,  to  say  nothing  of  his  strange 
eager  appearance  and  strange  eager  voice,  that  it  instanta- 
neously caused  a  profound  silence. 

"  Amy,  my  dear,"  he  repeated.  ''  Will  you  go  and  see  if 
Bob  is  on  the  lock  ? " 

She  was  at  his  side,  and  touching  him,  but  he  still  per- 
versely supposed  her  to  be  in  her  seat,  and  called  out,  still 
leaning  over  the  table,  "  Amy,  Amy.  I  don't  feel  quite  my- 
self. Ha.  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  I  par- 
ticularly wish  to  see  Bob.     Ha.     Of  all  the  turnkeys  he's  as 


LITTLP:  DORRlT.  649 

much  my  friend  as  yours.  See  if  Bob  is  in  the  lodge,  and 
beg  him  to  come  to  me." 

All  the  guests  were  now  in  consternation,  and  every  body 
rose. 

"  Dear  father,  I  am  not  there;  I  am  here,  by  you." 

"  Oh  !  You  are  here,  Amy  !  Good.  Hum.  Good.  Ha. 
Call  Bob.  If  he  has  been  relieved,  and  is  not  on  the  lock, 
tell  Mrs.  Bandham  to  go  and  fetch  him." 

She  was  gently  trying  to  get  him  away;  but  he  resisted 
and  would  not  go. 

"  I  tell  you,  child,"  he  said  petulantly,  "  I  can't  be  got 
up  the  narrow  stairs  without  Bob.  Ha.  Send  for  Bob. 
Hum.  Send  for  Bob — best  of  all  the  turnkeys — send  for 
Bob!" 

He  looked  confusedly  about  him,  and,  becoming  conscious 
of  the  number  of  faces  by  which  he  was  surrounded,  ad- 
dressed them: 

*'  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  duty — ha — devolves  upon  me 
of — hum — welcoming  you  to  the  Marshalsea  !  Welcome  to 
the  Marshalsea  !  The  space  is — ha — limited — limited — the 
parade  might  be  wider  ;  but  you  will  find  it  apparently  grow 
larger  after  a  time — a  time,  ladies  and  gentlemen — and  the 
air  is,  all  things  considered,  very  good.  It  blows  over  the — 
ha — Surrey  hills.  Blows  over  the  Surrey  hills.  This  is  the 
Snuggery.  Ham.  Supported  by  a  small  subscription  of  the 
— ha — collegiate  body.  In  return  for  which — hot  water- 
general  kitchen — and  little  domestic  advantages.  Those 
who  are  habituated  to  the — ha — Marshalsea,  are  pleased  to 
call  me  its  father.  I  am  accustomed  to  be  complimented 
by  strangers  as  the — ha — father  of  the  Marshalsea.  Cer- 
tainly, if  years  of  residence  may  establish  a  claim  to  so — ha 
— honorable  a  title,  I  may  accept  the — hum — conferred  dis- 
tinction.    My  child,  ladies  and  gentlemen.     My  daughter." 

She  was  not  ashamed  of  it,  or  ashamed  of  him.  She  was 
pale  and  frightened;  but  she  had  no  other  care  than  to  soothe 
him  and  get  him  away,  for  his  own  dear  sake.  She  was 
between  him  and  the  wondering  faces,  turned  round  upon 
his  breast  with  her  own  face  raised  to  his.  He  held  her 
clasped  in  his  left  arm,  and  between  whiles  her  low  voice 
was  heard  tenderly  imploring  him  to  go  away  with  her. 

"  Born  here,"  he  repeated,  shedding  tears.  "  Bred  here. 
Ladies  and  gentlemen,  my  daughter.  Poor  no  doubt,  but — • 
hum — proud.  Always  proud.  It  has  become  a — hum — 
not  infrequent  custom  for   my — ha — personal   admirers — 


650  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

personal  admirers  solely — to  be  pleased  to  express  their 
desire  to  acknowledge  my  semi-official  position  here,  by 
offering — ha — little  tributes,  which  usually  take  the  form  of 
— ha — testimonials — pecuniary  testimonials.  In  the  accept- 
ance of  those — ha — voluntary  recognitions  of  my  humble 
endeavors  to — hum — to — uphold  a  tone  here— a — tone — I 
beg  it  to  be  understood  that  I  do  not  consider  myself  com- 
promised. Ha.  Not  compromised.  Ha.  Not  a  beggar. 
No;  I  repudiate  the  title  '  At  the  same  time  far  be  it  from 
me  to — hum — to  put  upon  the  fine  feelings  by  which  my 
partial  friends  are  actuated,  the  slight  of  scrupling  to  admit 
that  those  offerings  are — hum — highly  acceptable.  On  the 
contrary,  they  are  most  acceptable.  In  my  child's  name,  if 
not  in  my  own,  I  make  the  admission  in  the  fullest  manner, 
at  the  same  time  reserving— ha — shall  I  say  my  personal 
dignity  ?     Ladies  and  gentlemen,  God  bless  you  all  !  " 

By  this  time,  the  exceeding  mortification  undergone  by 
the  bosom  had  occasioned  the  withdrawal  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  company  into  other  rooms.  The  few  who  had  lingered 
thus  long  followed  the  rest,  and  Little  Dorrit  and  her  father 
were  left  to  the  servants  and  themselves.  Dearest  and  most 
precious  to  her,  he  would  come  with  her  now,  would  he  not  ? 
He  replied  to  her  fervid  entreaties,  that  he  would  never  be 
able  to  get  up  the  narrow  stairs  without  Bob  ;  where  was  Bob, 
would  nobody  fetch  Bob  ?  Under  pretense  of  looking  for 
Bob,  she  got  him  out  against  the  stream  of  gay  company 
now  pouring  in  for  the  evening  assembly,  and  got  him  into  a 
coach  that  had  just  set  down  its  load,  and  got  him  home. 

The  broad  stairs  of  his  Roman  palace  were  contracted  in 
his  failing  sight  to  the  narrow  stairs  of  his  London  prison  ; 
and  he  would  suffer  no  one  but  her  to  touch  him,  his  brother 
excepted.  They  got  him  up  to  his  room  without  help,  and 
laid  him  down  on  his  bed.  And  from  that  hour  his  poor 
maimed  spirit,  only  remembering  the  place  where  it  had 
broken  its  w^ngs,  canceled  the  dream  through  which  it  had 
since  groped,  and  knew  of  nothing  beyond  the  Marshalsea. 
When  he  heard  footsteps  in  the  street,  he  took  them  for  the 
old  weary  tread  in  the  yards.  When  the  hour  came  for 
locking  up,  he  supposed  all  strangers  to  be  excluded  for  the 
night.  When  the  time  for  opening  came  again,  he  was  so 
anxious  to  see  Bob,  that  they  were  fain  to  patch  up  a  narra- 
tive how  that  Bob — many  a  year  dead  then,  gentle  turnkey — 
had  taken  cold,  but  hoped  to  be  out  to-morrow,  or  the  next 
day,  or  the  next  at  furthest. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  651 

He  fell  away  into  a  weakness  so  extreme  that  he  could 
not  raise  his  hand.  But  he  still  protected  his  brother  accord- 
ing to  his  long  usage  ;  and  would  say  with  some  compla- 
cency, fifty  times  a  day,  when  he  saw  him  standing  by  his 
bed,  ^'  My  good  Frederick,  sit  down.  You  are  very  feeble 
indeed." 

They  tried  him  with  Mrs.  General,  but  he  had  not  the 
faintest  knowledge  of  her.  Some  injurious  suspicion  lodged 
itself  in  his  brain,  that  she  wanted  to  supplant  Mrs.  Bang- 
ham,  and  that  she  was  given  to  drinking.  He  charged  her 
with  it  in  no  measured  terms  ;  and  was  so  urgent  with  his 
daughter  to  go  round  to  the  marshal  and  entreat  him  to 
turn  her  out,  that  she  was  never  reproduced  after  the  first 
failure. 

Saving  that  he  once  asked  "  if  Tip  had  gone  outside  ?  " 
the  remembrance  of  his  two  children  not  present,  seemed  to 
have  departed  from  him.  But  the  child  who  had  done  so 
much  for  him  and  had  been  so  poorly  repaid,  was  never  out 
of  his  mind.  Not  that  he  spared  her,  or  was  fearful  of  her 
being  spent  by  watching  and  fatigue  ;  he  was  not  more 
troubled  on  that  score  than  he  had  usually  been.  No  ;  he 
loved  her  in  his  old  way.  They  were  in  the  jail  again,  and 
she  tended  him,  and  he  had  constant  need  of  her,  and  could 
not  turn  without  her  ;  and  he  even  told  her,  sometimes,  that 
he  was  content  to  have  undergone  a  great  deal  for  her  sake. 
As  to  her,  she  bent  over  his  bed  with  her  quiet  face  against 
his,  and  would  have  laid   down  her  own  life  to  restore  him. 

When  he  had  been  sinking  in  this  painless  way  for  two  or 
three  days,  she  ^observed  him  to  be  troubled  by  the  ticking 
of  his  watch — a  pompous  gold  watch  that  made  as  great  a 
to-do  about  its  going,  as  if  nothing  else  went  but  itself  and 
time.  She  suffered  it  to  run  down  ;  but  he  was  still  uneasy, 
and  showed  that  was  not  what  he  wanted.  At  length  he 
roused  himself  to  explain  that  he  wanted  money  to  be  raised 
on  this  watch.  He  was  quite  pleased  when  she  pretended 
to  take  it  away  for  the  purpose,  and  afterward  had  a  relish 
for  his  little  tastes  of  wine  and  jelly,  that  he  had  not  had 
before. 

He  soon  made  it  plain  that  this  was  so  ;  for  in  another 
day  or  two  he  sent  off  his  sleeve-buttons  and  finger-rings. 
He  had  an  amazing  satisfaction  in  intrusting  her  with  these 
errands,  and  appeared  to  consider  it  equivalent  to  making 
the  most  methodical  and  provident  arrangements.  After 
his  trinkets,  or  such  of  them  as  he  had  been  able  to  see  about 


652  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

him,  were  gone,  his  clothes  engaged  his  attention  ;  and  it 
is  as  likely  as  not  that  he  was  kept  alive  for  some  days  by 
the  satisfaction  of  sending  them,  piece  by  piece,  to  an 
imaginary  pawnbroker's. 

Thus  for  ten  days  Little  Dorrit  bent  over  his  pillow, 
laying  her  cheek  against  his.  Sometimes  she  was  so  worn  out 
that  for  a  few  minutes  they  would  slumber  together.  Then 
she  would  awake  ;  to  recollect  with  fast-flowing  silent  tears 
what  it  was  that  touched  her  face,  and  to  see,  stealing  over 
the  cherished  face  upon  the  pillow,  a  deeper  shadow  than 
the  shadow  of  the  Marshalsea  wall. 

Quietly,  quietly,  all  the  lines  of  the  plan  of  the  great 
castle  melted,  one  after  another.  Quietly,  quietly,  the  ruled 
and  cross-ruled  countenance  on  which  they  were  traced, 
became  fair  and  blank.  Quietly,  quietly,  the  reflected 
marks  of  the  prison  bars  and  of  the  zig-zag  iron  on  the  wall- 
top,  faded  away.  Quietly,  quietly,  the  face  subsided  into  a 
fair  younger  likeness  of  her  own  than  she  had  ever  seen 
under  the  gray  hair,  and  sank  to  rest. 

At  first  her  uncle  was  stark  distracted.  "  Oh  my  brother  ! 
Oh  William,  William  !  You  to  go  before  me;  you  to  go 
alone;  you  to  go,  and  I  to  remain  !  You,  so  far  superior,  so 
distinguished,  so  noble  ;  I,  a  poor  useless  creature  fit  for 
nothing,  and  whom  no  one  would  have  missed  !" 

It  did  her,  for  the  time,  the  good  of  having  him  to  think 
of  and  to  succor. 

*' Uncle,  dear  uncle,  spare  yourself,  spare  me  !'* 

The  old  man  was  not  deaf  to  the  last  words.  When  he 
did  begin  to  restrain  himself,  it  was  that  he  might  spare  her. 
He  had  no  care  for  himself;  but,  with  all  the  remaining 
power  of  the  honest  heart,  stunned  so  long,  and  now  awaking 
to  be  broken,  he  honored  and  blessed  her. 

"  Oh  God,"  he  cried,  before  they  left  the  room,  with  his 
wrinkled  hands  clasped  over  her.  "  Thou  seest  this  daughter 
of  my  dear  dead  brother !  All  that  I  have  looked  upon, 
with  my  half-blind  and  sinful  eyes,  thou  hast  discerned, 
clearly,  brightly.  Not  a  hair  of  her  head  shall  be  harmed 
before  thee.  Thou  wilt  uphold  her,  to  her  last  hour.  And 
I  know  thou  wilt  reward  her  hereafter  !" 

They  remained  in  a  dim  room  near,  until  it  was  almost 
midnight,  quiet  and  sad  together.  At  times  his  grief  would 
seek  relief,  in  a  burst  like  that  in  which  it  had  found  its 
earliest  expression  ;  but  besides  that  his  little  strength  would 
soon  have  been  unequal  to  such  strains,  he  never  failed  to 


LITTLE  DORRrr,  653 

recall  her  words,  and  to  reproach  himself  and  calm  himself. 
The  only  utterance  with  which  he  indulged  his  sorrow,  was 
the  frequent  exclamation  that  his  brother  was  gone,  alone; 
that  they  had  been  together  in  the  outset  of  their  lives,  that 
they  had  fallen  into  misfortune  together,  that  they  had  kept 
together  through  their  many  years  of  poverty,  that  they  had 
remained  together  to  that  day  ;  and  that  his  brother  was 
gone  alone,  alone  ! 

They  parted,  heavy  and  sorrowful.  She  would  not  con- 
sent to  leave  him  anywhere  but  in  his  own  room,  and  she 
saw  him  lie  down  in  his  clothes  upon  his  bed,  and  covered 
him  with  her  own  hands.  Then  she  sank  upon  her  own  bed, 
and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep  :  the  sleep  of  exhaustion  and  rest, 
though  not  of  complete  release  from  a  pervading  conscious- 
ness of  affliction.  Sleep,  good  Little  Dorrit.  Sleep  through 
the  night  ! 

It  was  a  moonlight  night;  but  the  moon  rose  late,  being 
long  past  the  full.  When  it  was  high  in  the  peaceful  firma- 
ment, it  shone  through  half-closed  lattice  blinds  into  the 
solemn  room  where  the  stumblings  and  wanderings  of  a  life 
had  so  lately  ended.  Two  quiet  figures  were  within  the 
room  ;  two  figures  equally  still  and  impassive,  equally  re- 
moved by  an  untraversable  distance  from  the  teeming  earth 
and  all  that  it  contains,  though  soon  to  lie  in  it. 

One  figure  reposed  upon  the  bed.  The  other,  kneeling 
on  the  floor,  drooped  over  it  ;  the  arms  easily  and  peacefully 
resting  on  the  coverlet;  the  face  bowed  down,  so  that  the 
lips  touched  the  hand  over  which  with  its  last  breath  it  had 
bent.  The  two  brothers  were  before  their  Father;  far  beyond 
the  twilight  judgments  of  this  world;  high  above  its  mists 
and  obscurities 


CHAPTER  XX. 

INTRODUCES    THE    NEXT. 

The  passengers  were  landing  from  the  packet  on  the  pier 
at  Calais.  A  low-lying  place  and  a  low-spirited  place  Calais 
was,  with  the  tide  ebbing  out  toward  low  water-mark. 
There  had  been  no-more  water  on  the  bar  than  had  sufficed 
to  float  the  packet  in  ;  and  now  the  bar  itself,  with  a  shallow 
break  of  sea  over  it,  looked  like  a  lazy  marine  monster  just 
risen  to  the  surface^  whose  form  was  indistinctly  shown  as 


654  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

it  lay  asleep.  The  meager  lighthouse  all  in  white,  haunting 
the  seaboard,  as  if  it  were  the  ghost  of  an  edifice  that  had 
once  had  color  and  rotundity,  dripped  melancholy  tears 
after  its  late  buffeting  by  the  waves.  The  long  rows  of 
gaunt  black  piles,  slimy  and  wet  and  weather-worn,  with 
funeral  garlands  of  seaweed  twisted  about  them  by  the  late 
tide,  might  have  represented  an  unsightly  marine  cemetery. 
Every  wave-dashed,  storm-beaten  object,  was  so  low  and  so 
little,  under  the  broad  gray  sky,  in  the  noise  of  the  wind  and 
sea,  and  before  the  curling  lines  of  surf,  making  at  it  fero- 
ciously, that  the  wonder  was  there  was  any  Calais  left,  and 
that  its  low  gates  and  low  wall  and  low  roofs  and  low  ditches 
and  low  sand-hills  and  low  ramparts  and  flat  streets,  had 
not  yielded  long  ago  to  the  undermining  and  besieging  sea, 
like  the  fortifications  children  make  on  the  sea-shore. 

After  slipping  among  oozy  piles  and  planks,  stumbling  up 
wet  steps  and  encountering  many  salt  difficulties,  the  pas- 
sengers entered  on  their  comfortless  peregrination  along  the 
pier  ;  where  all  the  French  vagabonds  and  English  outlaws 
in  the  town  (half  the  population)  attended  to  prevent  their 
recovery  from  bewilderment.  After  being  minutely 
inspected  by  all  the  English,  and  claimed  and  reclaimed  and 
counter-claimed  as  prizes  by  all  the  French,  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  scuffle  three  quarters  of  a  mile  long,  they  were  at  last 
free  to  enter  the  streets,  and  to  make  off  in  their  various 
directions,  hotly  pursued. 

Clennam,  harassed  by  more  anxieties  than  one,  was  among 
this  devoted  band.  Llaving  rescued  the  most  defenseless  of 
his  compatriots  from  situations  of  great  extremity,  he  now 
went  his  way  alone,  or  as  nearly  alone  as  he  could  be,  with 
a  native  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  grease  and  a  cap  of  the  same 
material,  giving  chase  at  a  distance  of  some  fifty  yards,  and 
continually  calling  after  him,  "  Hi !  Ice-say  !  You  !  Seer  ! 
Ice-say  !     Nice  Oatel  !  " 

Even  this  hospitable  person,  however,  was  left  behind  at 
last,  and  Clennam  pursued  his  way,  unmolested.  There 
was  a  tranquil  air  in  the  town  after  the  turbulence 
of  the  channel  and  the  beach,  and  its  dullness  in  that 
comparison  was  agreeable.  He  met  new  groups  of  his 
countrymen,  who  had  all  a  straggling  air  of  having  at  one 
time  overblown  themselves,  like  certain  uncomfortable  kinds 
of  flowers,  and  of  being  now  mere  weeds.  They  had  all  an 
air,  too,  of  lounging  out  a  limited  round,  day  after  day,  which 
strongly  reminded  him  of  the  Marshalsea.      But  takins:  no 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  655 

further  note  of  them  than  was  sufficient  to  give  birth  to  the 
reflection,  he  sought  out  a  certain  street  and  number,  which 
he  kept  in  his  mind. 

"  So  Pancks  said,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  as  he 
stopped  before  a  dull  house  answering  to  the  address.  "  I 
suppose  his  information  to  be  correct  and  his  discovery, 
among  Mr.  Casby's  loose  papers,  indisputable  ;  but  with- 
out it,  I  should  hardly  have  supposed  this  to  be  a  likely 
place." 

A  dead  sort  of  house,  with  a  dead  wall  over  the  way  and 
%  dead  gateway  at  the  side,  where  a  pendent  bell-handle 
produced  two  dead  tinkles,  and  the  knocker  produced  a 
dead  flat,  surface  tapping,  that  seemed  not  to  have  depth 
enough  in  it  to  penetrate  even  the  cracked  door.  However, 
the  door  jarred  open  on  a  dead  sort  of  spring;  and  he  closed 
it  behind  him  as  he  entered  a  dull  yard,  soon  brought  to  a 
close  at  the  back  by  another  dead  wall,  where  an  attempt 
had  been  made  to  train  some  creeping  shrubs,  which  were 
dead  ;  and  to  make  a  little  fountain  in  a  grotto,  which  was 
dry  ;  and  to  decorate  that  with  a  little  statue,  which  was 
gone. 

The  entry  to  the  house  was  on  the  left,  and  it  was 
garnished  as  the  outer  gateway  was,  with  two  printed  bills  in 
French  and  English,  announcing  furnished  apartments  to 
let,  with  immediate  possession.  A  strong,  cheerful  peasant 
woman,  all  stocking,  petticoat,  white  cap,  and  ear-ring,  stood 
here  in  a  dark  doorway,  and  said  with  a  pleasant  show  of 
teeth,  "  Ice-say  !     Seer  !     Who  ? " 

Clennam,  replying  in  French,  said  the  English  lady  ;  he 
wished  to  see  the  English  lady.  "  Enter  then  and  ascend,  if 
you  please,"  returned  the  peasant  woman,  in  French"  like- 
wise. He  did  both,  and  followed  her  up  a  dark  bare  stair- 
case to  a  back  room  on  the  first  floor.  Hence,  there  was  a 
gloomy  view  of  the  yard  that  was  dull,  and  of  the  shrubs  that 
were  dead,  and  of  the  fountain  that  was  dry,  and  of  the  ped- 
estal of  the  statue  that  was  gone. 

*'  Monsieur  Blandois,"  said  Clennam. 

**  With  pleasure,  monsieur." 

Thereupon  the  woman  withdrew,  and  left  him  to  look  at 
the  room.  It  was  the  pattern  of  room  always  to  be  found  in 
such  a  house.  Cool,  dull  and  dark.  Waxed  floor  very  slip- 
pery. A  room  not  large  enough  to  skate  in;  nor  adapted  to 
the  easy  pursuit  of  any  other  occupation.  Red  and  white 
curtained  windows,  little  straw  mat,  little  round  table  with  a 


656  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

tumultuous  assemblage  of  legs  underneath,  clumsy  rush- 
bottomed  chairs,  two  great  red  velvet  arm-chairs,  afford- 
ing plenty  of  space  to  be  uncomfortable  in,  bureau,  chimney- 
glass  in  several  pieces  pretending  to  be  in  one  piece,  pair  of 
gaudy  vases  of  very  artificial  flowers  ;  between  them  a  Greek 
warrior  with  his  helmet  off,  sacHficing  a  clock  to  the  Genius 
of  France. 

After  some  pause,  a  door  of  communication  with  another 
room  was  opened,  and  a  lady  entered.  She  manifested  great 
surprise  on  seeing  Clennam,  and  her  glance  went  round  the 
room  in  search  of  some  one  else.  * 

"  Pardon  me.  Miss  Wade.     I  am  alone." 

"  It  was  not  your  name  that  was  brought  to  me." 

"  No  ;  I  know  that.  Excuse  me,  I  have  already  had  ex- 
perience that  my  name  does  not  predispose  you  to  an  inter- 
view ;  and  I  ventured  to  mention  the  name  of  one  I  am  in 
search  of." 

"  Pray,"  she  returned,  motioning  him  to  a  chair  so  coldly, 
that  he  remained  standing,  "  what  name  was  it  that  you 
gave  ? " 

**  I  mentioned  the  name  of  Blandois." 

"  Blandois  ?  " 

"  A  name  you  are  acquainted  with." 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  said,  frowning,  *'  that  you  should  still 
press  an  undesired  interest  in  me  and  my  acquaintances,  in 
me  and  my  affairs,  Mr.  Clennam.  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean," 

"  Pardon  me.     You  know  the  name  ? " 

"  What  can  you  have  to  do  with  the  name  ?  What  can  1 
have  to  do  with  the  name  ?  W  hat  can  you  have  to  do  with 
my  knowing  or  not  knowing  any  name  ?  I  know  many  names 
and  I  have  forgotten  many  more.  This  may  be  in  the  one 
class,  or  it  may  be  in  the  other,  or  I  may  never  have  heard 
it.  I  am  acquainted  with  no  reason  for  examining  myself, 
or  for  being  examined,  about  it." 

"  If  you  will  allow  me,"  said  Clennam,  *'  I  Vvill  tell  you  my 
reason  for  pressing  the  subject.  I  admit  that  I  do  press  it, 
and  I  must  beg  you  to  forgive  me  if  I  do  so  very  earnestly. 
The  reason  is  all  mine.  I  do  not  insinuate  that  it  is  in  any 
way  yours." 

*'  Well,  sir,"  she  returned,  repeating  a  little  less  haughtily 
than  before  her  former  invitation  to  him  to  be  seated  :  to 
which  he  now  deferred,  as  she  seated  herself.  "  I  am  at  least 
glad  to  know  that  this  is  not  another  bondswoman  of  some 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  657 

friend  of  yours,  who  is  bereft  of  free  choice,  and  whom  I  have 
spirited  away.     I  will  hear  your  reason,  if  you  please." 

"  First,  to  identify  the  person  of  whom  we  speak,"  said 
Clennam,  "  let  me  observe  that  it  is  the  person  you  met  in 
London  some  time  back.  You  will  remember  meeting  him 
near  the  river — in  the  Adelphi  !  " 

"  You  mix  yourself  most  unaccoun^bly  with  my  busi- 
ness," she  replied,  looking  full  at  him  with  stern  displeasure. 
"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"  I  entreat  you  not  to  take  it  ill.     By  mere  accident." 

''  What  accident  ?  " 

*'  Solely  the  accident  of  coming  upon  you  in  the  street  and 
seeing  the  meeting." 

"  Do  you  speak  of  yourself,  or  some  one  else  ?  *' 

"Of  myself.     I  saw  it." 

"  To  be  sure  it  was  in  the  open  street,"  she  observed, 
after  a  few  moments  of  less  and  less  angry  reflection.  "  Fifty 
people  might  have  seen  it.  It  would  have  signified  nothing 
if  they  had." 

"  Nor  do  I  make  my  having  seen  it  of  any  moment,  nor 
(otherwise  than  as  an  explanation  of  my  coming  here) 
do  I  connect  my  visit  with  it,  or  the  favor  that  I  have  to 
ask." 

"  Oh  !  You  have  to  ask  a  favor  !  It  occurred  to  me," 
and  the  handsome  face  looked  bitterly  at  him,  "  that  your 
manner  was  softened,  Mr.  Clennam." 

He  was  content  to  protest  against  this  by  a  slight  action 
without  contesting  it  in  words.  He  then  referred  to  Blandois's 
disappearance,  of  which  it  was  probable  she  had  heard  ?  No. 
However  probable  it  was  to  him,  she  had  heard  of  no  such 
thing.  Let  him  look  round  him  (she  said)  and  judge  for  him- 
self what  general  intelligence  was  likely  to  reach  the  ears  of 
a  woman  who  had  been  shut  up  there  while  it  was  rife,  devour- 
ing her  own  heart.  When  she  had  uttered  this  denial,  which 
he  believed  to  be  true,  she  asked  him  what  he  meant  by  dis- 
appearance ?  That  led  to  his  narrating  the  circumstances  in 
detail,  and  expressing  something  of  his  anxiety  to  discover 
what  had  really  become  of  the  man,  and  to  repel  the  dark 
suspicions  that  clouded  about  his  mother's  house.  She  heard 
him  with  evident  surprise,  and  with  more  marks  of  suppressed 
interest  than  he  had  before  seen  in  her  ;  still  they  did  not 
overcome  her  distant,  proud,  and  self-secluded  manner. 
When  he  had  finished,  she  said  nothing  but  these  words  : 

**  You  have  not  yet  told  me,  sir,  what  I  have  to  do  with  it. 


658  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

or  what  the  favor  is.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  come  to 
that  ?  " 

^'  I  assume,"  said  Arthur,  persevering  in  bis  endeavor  to 
soften  her  scornful  demeanor, ''  that  being  in  communication 
— may  I  say,  confidential  communication — with  this  per- 
son— " 

*^  You  may  say,  oj^course,  whatever  you  like,"  she  re- 
marked ;  "  but  I  do  not  subscribe  to  your  assumptions,  Mr. 
Clennam,  or  to  any  one's." 

^^  — That  being,  at  least,  in  personal  communication  with 
him,"  said  Clennam,  changing  the  form  of  his  position,  in  the 
hope  of  making  it  unobjectionable,  '*  you  can  tell  me  some- 
thing of  his  antecedents,  pursuit,  habits,  usual  place  of  resi- 
dence. Can  give  me  some  little  clew  by  which  to  seek  him 
out  in  the  likeliest  manner,  and  either  produce  him,  or 
establish  what  has  become  of  him.  This  is  the  favor  I  ask, 
and  I  ask  it  in  a  distress  of  mind  for  which  I  hope  you  will 
feel  some  consideration.  If  you  should  have  any  reason  for 
imposing  conditions  upon  me,  I  will  respect  it  without  asking 
what  it  is." 

"  You  chanced  to  see  me  in  the  street  with  the  man,"  she 
observed,  after  being,  to  his  mortification,  evidently  more 
occupied  with  her  own  reflections  on  the  matter  than  with 
his  appeal.     ^'  Then  you  knew  the  man  before  ?  " 

*'  Not  before  ;  afterward.  I  never  saw  him  before,  but  I 
saw  him  again  on  this  very  night  of  his  disappearance.  In 
my  mother's  room,  in  fact.  I  left  him  there.  You  will  read 
in  this  paper  all  that  is  known  of  him." 

He  handed  her  one  of  the  printed  bills  which  she  read 
with  a  steady  and  attentive  face. 

*'  This  is  more  than  /  knew  of  him,"  she  said,  giving  it 
back. 

Clennam's  looks  expressed  his  heavy  disappointment, 
perhaps  his  incredulity  ;  for,  she  added  in  the  same  unsym- 
pathetic tone  :  ^*  You  don't  believe  it.  Still,  it  is  so.  As  to 
personal  communication  ;  it  seems  that  there  was  personal 
communication  between  him  and  your  mother.  And  yet 
you  say  you  believe  ker  declaration  that  she  knows  no  more 
of  him  !  " 

A  sufficiently  expressive  hint  of  suspicion  was  conveyed 
in  these  words,  and  in  the  smile  by  which  they  were  accom- 
panied to  bring  the  blood  into  Clennam's  cheeks. 

**  Come,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  cruel  pleasure  in  repeating 
the  stab,  "  I  will  be  as  open  with  you  as  you  can  desire,     I 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  659 

will  confess  that  if  I  cared  for  my  credit  (which  I  do  not), 
or  had  a  good  name  to  preserve  (which  I  have  not,  for  I  am 
utterly  indifferent  to  its  being  considered  good  or  bad),  I 
should  regard  myself  as  heavily  compromised  by  having 
had  any  thing  to  do  with  this  fellow.  Yet  he  never  passed 
in  at  my  door — never  sat  in  colloquy  with  me  until  mid- 
night." 

She  took  her  revenge  for  her  old  grudge  in  thus  turning 
his  subject  against  him.  Hers  was  not  the  nature  to  spare 
him,  and  she  had  no  compunction. 

'^  That  he  is  a  low,  mercenary  wretch  ;  that  I  first  saw 
him  prowling  about  Italy  (where  I  was,  not  long  ago),  and 
that  I  hired  him  there,  as  the  suitable  instrument  of  a  pur- 
pose I  happened  to  have  ;  I  have  no  objection  to  tell  you. 
In  short,  it  was  worth  my  while,  for  my  own  pleasure — the 
gratification  of  a  strong  feeling — to  pay  a  spy  who  would 
fetch  and  carry  for  money.  I  paid  this  creature.  And  I 
dare  say  that  if  I  had  wanted  to  make  such  a  bargain  and 
if  I  could  have  paid  him  enough,  and  if  he  could  have  done 
it  in  the  dark,  free  from  all  risk,  he  would  have  taken  any 
life  with  as  little  scruple  as  he  took  my  money.  That,  at 
least,  is  my  opinion  of  him  ;  and  I  see  it  is  not  very  far 
removed  from  yours.  Your  mother's  opinion  of  him,  I  am 
to  assume  (following  your  example  of  assuming  this  and  that), 
was  vastly  different." 

'*  My  mother,  let  me  remind  you,"  said  Clennam,  **  was 
first  brought  into  communication  with  him  in  the  unlucky 
course  of  business." 

''  It  appears  to  have  been  an  unlucky  course  of  business 
that  last  brought  her  into  communication  with  him," 
returned  Miss  Wade  ;  *'  and  business  hours  on  that  occasion 
were  late." 

"  You  imply,"  said  Arthur,  smarting  under  these  cool- 
handed  thrusts,  of  which  he  had  deeply  felt  the  force  already, 
*'  that  there  was  something " 

*' Mr.  Clennam,"  she  composedly  interrupted,  **  recollect 
that  I  do  not  speak  by  implication  about  the  man.  He  is,  I 
say  again  without  disguise,  a  low,  mercenary  wretch.  I  sup- 
pose such  a  creature  goes  where  there  is  occasion  for  him. 
If  I  had  not  had  occasion  for  him,  you  would  not  have  seen 
him  and  me  together." 

Wrung  by  her  persisten<:e  in  keeping  that  dark  side  of  the 
case  before  him,  of  which  there  was  a  half-hidden  shadow 
in  his  own  breast,  Clennam  was  silent. 


66o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

*'  I  have  spoken  of  him  as  still  living,"  she  added,  "  but 
he  may  have  been  put  out  of  the  way  for  any  thing  I  know. 
For  any  thing  I  care,  also.  I  have  no  further  occasion  for 
him." 

With  a  heavy  sigh  and  a  despondent  air,  Arthur  Clennam 
slowly  rose.  She  did  not  rise  also,  but  said,  having  looked 
at  him  in  the  meanwhile  with  a  fixed  look  of  suspicion,  and 
lips  angrily  compressed  : 

^'  He  was  the  chosen  associate  of  your  dear  friend,  Mr. 
Gowan,  was  he  not  !  Why  don't  you  ask  your  dear  friend 
to  help  you  ?  " 

The  denial  that  he  was  a  dear  friend  rose  to  Arthur's  lips; 
but  he  repressed  it,  remembering  his  old  struggles  and 
resolutions,  and  said  : 

"  Further  than  that  he  has  never  seen  Blandois  since 
Blandois  set  out  for  England,  Mr.  Gowan  knows  nothing 
additional  about  him.  He  was  a  chance  acquaintance, 
made  abroad." 

**  A  chance  acquaintance,  made  abroad  !  "  she  repeated. 
"  Yes.  Your  dear  friend  has  need  to  divert  himself  with  all 
the  acquaintances  he  can  make,  seeing  what  a  wife  he  has. 
I  hate  his  wife,  sir." 

The  anger  with  which  she  said  it,  the  more  remarkable  for 
being  so  much  under  her  restraint,  fixed  Clennam's  attention, 
and  kept  him  on  the  spot.  It  flashed  out  of  her  dark  eyes 
as  they  regarded  him,  quivered  in  her  nostrils,  and  fired  the 
very  breath  she  exhaled;  but  her  face  was  otherwise  com- 
posed into  a  disdainful  serenity,  and  her  attitude  was  as 
calmly  and  haughtily  graceful  as  if  she  had  been  in  a  mood 
of  complete  indifference. 

**  All  I  will  say  is,  Miss  Wade,"  he  remarked,  *^  that  you 
can  have  received  no  provocation  to  a  feeling  in  which  I 
believe  you  have  no  sharer." 

**  You  may  ask  your  dear  friend,  if  you  choose,"  she  re- 
turned, ^^  for  his  opmion  upon  that  subject." 

^^  I  am  scarcely  on  those  intimate  terms  with  my  dear 
friend,"  said  Arthur,  in  spite  of  his  resolutions,  ^' that  would 
render  my  approaching  the  subject  very  probable,  Miss 
Wade." 

"  I  hate  him,"  she  returned.  "  Worse  than  his  wife,  because 
I  was  once  dupe  enough,  and  false  enough  to  myself,  almost 
to  love  him.  You  have  seen  me,  sir,  only  on  commonplace 
occasions,  when  I  dare  say  you  have  thought  me  a  common- 
place woman,  a  little  more  self-willed  than  the  generality. 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  66i 

You  don't  know  what  I  mean  by  hating,  if  you  know  me  no 
better  than  that  ;  you  can't  know,  without  knowing  with  what 
care  I  have  studied  myself,  and  people  about  me.  For  this 
reason  I  have  for  some  time  inclined  to  tell  you  what  my  life 
has  been — not  to  propitiate  your  opinion,  for  I  set  no  value 
on  it  ;  but  that  you  may  comprehend,  when  you  think  of 
your  dear  friend  and  his  dear  wife,  what  I  mean  by  hating. 
Shall  I  give  you  something  I  have  written  and  put  by  for 
your  perusal,  or  shall  I  hold  my  hand  ?  " 

Arthur  begged  her  to  give  it  to  him.  She  went  to  the 
bureau,  unlocked  it,  and  took  from  an  inner  drawer  a  few 
folded  sheets  of  paper.  Without  any  conciliation  of  him, 
scarcely  addressing  him,  rather  speaking  as  if  she  were  speak- 
ing to  her  own  looking-glass  for  the  justification  of  her  own 
stubbornness,  she  said,  as  she  gave  them  to  him  : 

"  Now  you  may  know  what  I  mean  by  hating  !  No  more 
of  that.  Sir,  whether  you  find  me  temporarily  and  cheaply 
lodging  in  an  empty  London  house  or  in  a  Calais  apartment, 
you  find  Harriet  with  me.  You  may  like  to  see  her  before 
you  leav^.  Harriet,  come  in  !  "  She  called  Harriet  again. 
The  second  call  produced  Harriet,  once  Tattycoram. 

"  Here  is  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  Miss  Wade  ;  *'  not  come  for 
you  ;  he  has  given  you  up — I  suppose  you  have,  by  this 
time  ?  " 

"  Having  no  authority  or  influence — yes,"  assented  Clen- 
nam. 

"  Not  come  in  search  of  you,  you  see  ;  but  still  seeking 
some  one.     He  wants  that  Blandois  man." 

"With  whom  I  saw  you  in  the  Strand  in  London,"  hinted 
Arthur. 

"  If  you  know  any  thing  of  him,  Harriet,  except  that  he 
came  from  Venice — which  we  all  know — tell  it  to  Mr.  Clen- 
nam freely." 

'*  I  know  nothing  more  about  him,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  ?  "  Miss  Wade  inquired  of  Arthur. 

He  had  no  reason  to  disbelieve  them  ;  the  girl's  manner 
being  so  natural  as  to  be  almost  convincing,  if  he  had  had 
any  previous  doubts.  He  replied,  ''  I  must  seek  for  intelli- 
gence elsewhere." 

He  was  not  going  in  the  same  breath  ;  but  he  had  risen 
before  the  girl  entered,  and  she  evidently  thought  he  was. 
She  looked  quickly  at  him,  and  said  : 

"  Are  they  well,  sir  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  " 


662  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

She  stopped  herself  in  saying  what  would  have  been  "  all 
of  them ;  "  glanced  at  Miss  Wade  ;  and  said  "  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Meagles." 

"  They  were,  when  I  last  heard  of  them.  They  are  not  at 
home.  By  the  way,  let  me  ask  you.  Is  it  true  that  you  were 
seen  there  ? " 

'^  Where  ?  Where  does  any  one  say  I  was  seen  ?  "  returned 
the  girl,  sullenly  casting  down  her  eyes. 

^'  Looking  in  at  the  garden  gate  of  the  cottage." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Wade.      "  She  has  never  been  near  it." 

^*  You  are  wrong,  then,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  went  down  there, 
the  last  time  we  were  in  London.  I  went  one  afternoon  when 
you  left  me  alone.     And  I  did  look  in." 

"  You  poor-spirited  girl,"  returned  Miss  Wade  with  infinite 
contempt  ;  "  does  all  our  companionship,  do  all  our  conver- 
sations, do  all  your  old  complainings,  tell  for  so  little  as 
that  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  harm  in  looking  in  at  the  gate  for  an 
instant,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  saw  by  the  windows  that  the 
family  were  not  there." 

"  Why  should  you  go  near  the  place  ?  " 

*'  Because  I  wanted  to  see  it.  Because  I  felt  that  I  should 
like  to  look  at  it  again." 

As  each  of  the  two  handsome  faces  looked  at  the  other, 
Clennam  felt  how  each  of  the  two  natures  must  be  con- 
stantly tearing  the  other  to  pieces. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Miss  Wade,  coldly  subduing  and  removing 
her  glance  ;  '*  if  you  had  any  desire  to  see  the  place  where 
you  led  the  life  from  which  I  rescued  you  because  you  had 
found  out  what  it  was,  that  is  another  thing.  But  is  that 
your  truth  to  me  ?  Is  that  your  fidelity  to  me  ?  Is  that  the 
common  cause  I  make  with  you  ?  You  are  not  worth  the 
confidence  I  have  placed  in  you.  You  are  not  worth  the 
favor  I  have  shown  you.  You  are  no  higher  than  a  spaniel, 
and  had  better  go  back  to  the  people  who  did  worse  than 
whip  you." 

"  If  you  speak  so  of  them  with  any  one  else  by  to  hear, 
you'll  provoke  me  to  take  their  part,"  said  the  girl. 

''Go  back  to  them,"  Miss  Wade  retorted.  "  Go  back  to 
them." 

"  You  know  very  well,"  retorted  Harriet  in  her  turn,  "  that 
I  won't  go  back  to  them.  You  know  very  well  that  I  have 
thrown  them  off,  and  never  can,  never  shall,  never  will,  go 
back  to  them.     Let  them  alone,  then,  Miss  Wade." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  663 

*'  You  prefer  their  plenty  to  your  less  fat  living  here,"  she 
rejoined.  ^'  You  exalt  them,  and  slight  me.  What  else 
should  I  have  expected  ?     I  ought  to  have  known  it." 

^'  It's  not  so,"  said  the  girl,  rfushing  high,  "  and  you  don't 
say  what  you  mean.  I  know  what  you  mean.  You  are 
reproaching  me,  underhand,  with  having  nobody  but  you  to 
\ook  to.  And  because  I  have  nobody  but  you  to  look  to, 
you  think  you  are  to  make  me  do  or  not  do,  every  thing  you 
please,  and  are  to  put  any  affront  upon  me.  You  are  as  bad 
as  they  were,  every  bit.  But  I  will  not  be  quite  tamed,  and 
made  submissive.  I  will  say  again  that  I  went  to  look  at 
the  house,  because  I  had  often  thought  that  I  should  like  to 
see  it  once  more.  I  will  again  ask  how  they  are,  because  I 
once  liked  them,  and  at  times  thought  they  were  kind  to  me." 

Hereupon  Clennam  said  that  he  was  sure  they  would  still 
receive  her  kindly,  if  she  should  ever  desire  to  return." 

'*  Never  1  "  said  the  girl  passionately.  "  I  shall  never  do 
that.  Nobody  knows  that  better  than  Miss  Wade,  though 
she  taunts  me  because  she  has  made  me  her  dependent. 
And  I  know  I  am  so  ;  and  I  know  she  is  overjoyed  when  she 
can  bring  it  to  my  mind." 

*'  A  good  pretense  !  "  said  Miss  Wade,  with  no  less  anger, 
haughtiness,  and  bitterness  ;  ^'  but  too  threadbare  to  cover 
what  I  plainly  see  in  this.  My  poverty  will  not  bear  com- 
petition with  their  money.  Better  go  back  at  once,  better 
go  back  at  once,  and  have  done  with  it  !  " 

Arthur  Clennam  looked  at  them,  standing  a  little  distance 
asunder  in  the  dull  confined  room,  each  proudly  cherishing 
her  own  anger  ;  each  with  a  fixed  determination,  torturing 
her  own  breast,  and  torturing  the  other's.  He  said  a  word 
or  two  of  leave-taking  ;  but  Miss  Wade  barely  inclined  her 
head,  and  Harriet,  with  the  assumed  humiliation  of  an  ab- 
ject dependent  and  serf  (but  not  without  defiance  for  all 
that),  made  as  if  she  were  too  low  to  notice  or  to  be  noticed. 

He  came  down  the  dark  winding  stairs  into  the  yard,  with 
an  increased  sense  upon  him  of  the  gloom  of  the  wall  that 
was  dead,  and  of  the  shrubs  that  were  dead,  and  of  the 
fountain  that  was  dry,  and  of  the  statue  that  was  gone. 
Pondering  much  on  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  in  that 
house,  as  well  as  on  the  failure  of  all  his  efforts  to  trace  the 
suspicious  character  who  was  lost,  he  returned  to  London 
and  to  England  by  the  packet  that  had  taken  him  over.  On 
the  way  he  unfolded  the  sheets  of  paper,  and  read  in  them 
what  is  reproduced  in  the  next  chapter. 


664  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE    HISTORY    OF    A    SELF-TORMENTOR. 

I  have  the  misfortune  of  not  being  a  fool.  From  a  very 
early  age  I  have  detected  what  those  about  me  thouglit  they 
hid  from  me.  If  I  could  have  been  habitually  imposed  upon, 
instead  of  habitually  discerning  the  truth,  I  might  have  lived 
as  smoothly  as  most  fools  do. 

My  childhood  was  passed  with  a  grandmother  ;  that  is  to 
say,  with  a  lady  who  represented  that  relative  to  me,  and 
who  took  that  title  on  herself.  She  had  no  claim  to  it,  but  I 
— being  to  that  extent  a  little  fool — had  no  suspicion  of  her. 
She  had  some  children  of  her  own  family  in  her  house,  and 
some  children  of  other  people.  All  girls  ;  ten  in  number, 
including  me.  We  all  lived  together  and  were  educated 
together. 

I  must  have  been  about  twelve  years  old  when  I  began  to 
see  how  determinedly  those  girls  patronized  me.  I  was  told 
I  was  an  orphan.  There  was  no  other  orphan  among  us  ; 
and  I  perceived  (here  was  the  first  disadvantage  of  not  being 
a  fool)  that  they  conciliated  me  in  an  insolent  pity,  and  in 
a  sense  of  superiority.  I  did  not  set  this  down  as  a  discovery, 
rashly.  I  tried  them  often.  I  could  hardly  make  them 
quarrel  with  me.  When  I  succeeded  with  any  of  them, 
they  were  sure  to  come  after  an  hour  or  two,  and  begin  a 
reconciliation.  I  tried  them  over  and  over  again,  and  I 
never  knew  them  wait  for  me  to  begin.  They  were  always 
forgiving  me,  in  their  vanity  and  condescension.  Little 
images  of  grown  people  ! 

One  of  them  was  my  chosen  friend.  I  loved  that  stupid 
mite  in  a  passionate  way  that  she  could  no  more  deserve, 
than  I  can  remember  without  feeling  ashamed  of,  though  I 
was  but  a  child.  She  had  what  they  called  an  amiable 
temper,  an  affectionate  temper.  She  could  distribute,  and 
did  distribute,  pretty  looks  and  smiles  to  every  one  among 
them.  I  believe  there  was  not  a  soul  in  the  place,  except 
myself,  who  knew  that  she  did  it  purposely  to  wound  and 
gall  me  ! 

Nevertheless,  I  so  loved  that  unworthy  girl,  that  my  life 
was  made  stormy  by  my  fondness  for  her.  I  was  constantly 
lectured  and  disgraced  for  what  was  called  ''  trying  her  ;" 
in  other  words,   charging   her   with   her  little  perfidy  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  665 

throwing  her  into  tears  by  showing  her  that  I  read  her 
heart.  However,  I  loved  her,  faithfully  ;  and  one  time  I 
went  home  with  her  for  the  holidays. 

She  was  worse  at  home  than  she  had  been  at  school. 
She  had  a  crowd  of  cousins  and  acquaintances,  and  we  had 
dances  at  her  house,  and  went  out  to  dances  at  other  houses, 
and,  both  at  home  and  out,  she  tormented  my  love  beyond 
endurance.  Her  plan  was  to  make  them  all  fond  of  her — 
and  so  drive  me  wild  with  jealousy.  To  be  familiar  and 
endearing  with  them  all — and  so  make  me  mad  with  envy- 
ing them.  When  we  were  left  alone  in  our  bedroom  at 
night,  I  would  reproach  her  with  my  perfect  knowledge  of 
her  baseness  ;  and  then  she  would  cry  and  cry  and  say  I 
was  cruel,  and  then  I  would  hold  her  in  my  arms  till  morn- 
ing, loving  her  as  much  as  ever,  and  often  feeling  as  if,  rather 
than  suffer  so,  I  could  so  hold  her  in  my  arms  and  plunge  to 
the  bottom  of  a  river — where  I  would  still  hold  her,  after  we 
were  both  dead. 

It  came  to  an  end,  and  I  was  relieved.  In  the  family, 
there  was  an  aunt,  who  w^as  not  fond  of  me.  I  doubt  if 
any  of  the  family  liked  me  much  ;  but  I  never  wanted  them 
to  like  me,  being  altogether  bound  up  in  the  one  girl.  The 
aunt  was  a  young  woman,  and  she  had  a  serious  way  with 
her  eyes  of  watching  me.  She  was  an  audacious  woman, 
and  openly  looked  compassionately  at  me.  After  one  of 
the  nights  that  I  have  spoken  of,  I  came  down  into  a  green- 
house before  breakfast.  Charlotte  (the  name  of  my  false 
young  friend)  had  gone  down  before  me,  and  I  heard  this 
aunt  speaking  to  her  about  me  as  I  entered.  I  stopped 
where  1  was,  among  the  leaves,  and  listened. 

The  aunt  said,  ''  Charlotte,  Miss  Wade  is  wearing  you  to 
death,  and  this  must  not  continue."  I  repeat  the  very  words 
I  heard. 

Now,  what  did  she  answer  ?  Did  she  say,  "  It  is  I  who 
am  wearing  her  to  death,  I  who  am  keeping  her  on  a  rack 
and  am  the  executioner,  yet  she  tells  me  every  night  that 
she  loves  me  devotedly,  though  she  knows  what  I  make  her 
undergo  ?  "  No  ;  my  first  memorable  experience  was  true 
to  what  I  knew  her  to  be,  and  to  all  my  experience.  She 
began  sobbing  and  weeping  (to  secure  the  aunt's  sympathy 
to  herself),  and  said,  "  Dear  aunt,  she  has  an  unhappy  tem- 
per ;  other  girls  at  school  besides  I,  try  hard  to  make  it 
better  ;  we  all  try  hard." 

Upon  that,  the  aunt  fondled  her,  as  if  she  had  said  some- 


666  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

thing  noble  instead  of  despicable  and  false,  and  kept  up  the 
infamous  pretense  by  replying,  *'  But  there  are  reasonable 
limits,  my  dear  love,  to  every  thing,  and  1  see  that  this  poor 
miserable  girl  causes  you  more  constant  and  useless  distress 
than  even  so  good  an  effort  justifies." 

The  poor  miserable  girl  came  out  of  her  concealment,  as 
you  may  be  prepared  to  hear,  and  said,  "  Send  me  home." 
I  never  said  another  word  to  either  of  them,  or  to  any  of 
them,  but  ^'  Send  me  home,  or  I  will  walk  home  alone,  night 
and  day  !  "  When  I  got  home,  I  told  my  supposed  grand- 
mother that,  unless  I  was  sent  away  to  finish  my  education 
somewhere  else,  before  that  girl  came  back,  or  before  any 
one  of  them  came  back,  I  would  burn  my  sight  away  by 
throwing  myself  into  the  fire,  rather  than  I  would  endure  to 
look  at  their  plotting  faces. 

I  went  among  young  women  next,  and  I  found  them  no 
better.  Fair  words  and  fair  pretenses  ;  but  I  penetrated 
below  those  assertions  of  themselves  and  depreciations  of  me, 
and  they  were  no  better.  Before  I  left  them,  I  learned  that 
I  had  no  grandmother  and  no  recognized  relation.  I  carried 
the  light  of  that  information  both  into  my  past  and  into  my 
future.  It  showed  me  many  new  occasions  on  which  people 
triumphed  over  me,  when  they  made  a  pretense  of  treating 
me  wnth  consideration,  or  doing  me  a  service. 

A  man  of  business  had  a  small  property  in  trust  for  me. 
I  was  to  be  a  governess.  I  became  a  governess;  and  went 
into  the  family  of  a  poor  nobleman,  where  there  were  two 
daughters — little  children,  but  the  parents  wished  them  to 
grow  up,  if  possible,  under  one  instructress.  The  mother 
was  young  and  pretty.  From  the  first,  she  made  a  show  of 
behaving  to  me  with  great  delicacy.  I  kept  my  resentment 
to  myself  ;  but  I  knew  very  well  that  it  was  her  way  of  pet- 
ting the  knowledge  that  she  was  my  mistress,  and  might 
have  behaved  differently  to  her  servant  if  it  had  been  her 
fancy. 

I  say  I  did  not  resent  it,  nor  did  I;  but  I  showed  her,  by 
not  gratifying  her,  that  I  understood  her.  When  she  pressed 
me  to  take  wine  I  took  water.  If  there  happened  to  be  any 
thing  choice  at  table,  she  always  sent  it  to  m«;  but  I  always 
declined  it,  and  ate  of  the  rejected  dishes.  These  disap- 
pointments of  her  patronage  were  a  sharp  retort,  and  made 
me  feel  independent. 

I  liked  the  children.  They  were  timid,  but  on  the  whole 
disposed  to  attach  themselves  to  me.     There  was  a  nurse, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  667 

however,  in  the  house,  a  rosy-faced  woman  always  making 
an  obstrusive  pretense  of  being  gay  and  good-humored,  who 
had  nursed  them  both,  and  who  had  secured  their  affections 
before  I  saw  them.  I  could  almost  have  settled  down  to  my 
fate  but  for  this  wonan.  Her  artful  devices  for  keeping  her- 
self before  the  children  in  constant  competition  with  me, 
might  have  blinded  many  in  my  place;  but  I  saw  throu^ 
them  from  the  first.  On  the  pretext  of  arranging  my  rooms 
and  waiting  on  me  and  taking  care  of  my  wardrobe  (all  of 
which  she  did  busily),  she  was  never  absent.  The  most 
crafty  of  her  many  subtleties  was  her  feint  of  seeking  to 
make  the  children  fonder  of  me.  She  would  lead  them  to 
me  and  coax  them  to  me.  "  Come  to  good  Miss  Wade, 
come  to  dear  Miss  Wade,  come  to  pretty  Miss  Wade.  She 
loves  you  very  much.  Miss  Wade  is  a  clever  lady,  who  has 
read  heaps  of  books,  and  can  tell  you  far  better  and  more 
interesting  stories  than  I  know.  Come  and  hear  Miss 
W^ade  !  "  How  could  I  engage  their  attention,  when  my 
heart  was  burning  against  these  ignorant  designs  ?  How 
could  I  wonder,  when  I  saw  their  innocent  faces  shrinking 
away,  and  their  arms  twining  round  her  neck,  instead  of 
mine  ?  Then  she  would  look  up  at  me,  shaking  their  curls 
from  her  face,  and  say,  "  They'll  come  round  soon,  Miss 
Wade;  they're  very  simple  and  loving,  ma'am;  don't  be  at 
all  cast  down  about  it,  ma'am  " — exulting  over  me  ! 

There  was  another  thing  the  woman  did.  At  times,  when 
she  saw  that  she  had  safely  plunged  me  into  a  black  des- 
pondent brooding  by  these  means,  she  would  call  the  atten- 
tion of  the  children  to  it,  and  would  show  them  the  differ- 
ence between  herself  and  me.  "  Hush  !  Poor  Miss  Wade  is 
not  well.  Don't  make  a  noise,  my  dears,  her  head  aches. 
Come  and  comfort  her.  Come  and  ask  her  if  she  is  better; 
come  and  ask  her  to  lie  down.  I  hope  you  have  nothing  on 
your  mind,  ma'am.     Don't  take  on,  ma'am,  and  be  sorry  ! " 

It  became  intolerable.  Her  ladyship,  my  mistress,  com- 
ing in  one  day  when  I  was  alone,  and  at  the  height  of  feel- 
ing that  I  could  support  it  no  longer,  I  told  her  I  must  go. 
I  could  not  bear  the  presence  of  that  Avoman  Dawes. 

"  Miss  Wade  !  Poor  Dawes  is  devoted  to  you;  would  do 
any  thing  for  you  !  " 

I  knew  beforehand  she  would  say  so  ;  I  was  quite  pre- 
pared for  it  ;  I  only  answered,  it  was  not  for  me  to  contra- 
dict my  mistress;  I  must  go. 

*'  I  hope,  Miss  Wade,"   she   returned,  instantly  assuming 


668  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

the  tone  of  superiority  she  had  always  so  thinly  concealed, 
"  that  nothing  I  have  ever  said  or  done  since  we  have  been 
together,  has  justified  your  use  of  that  disagreeable  word, 
mistress.  It  must  have  been  wholly  inadvertent  on  my  part. 
Pray  tell  me  what  it  is." 

I  replied  that  I  had  no  complaint  to  make,  either  of  my 
mistress  or  to  my  mistress  ;  but  I  must  go. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  sat  down  beside  me, 
and  laid  her  hand  on  mine.  As  if  that  honor  would  obliter- 
ate any  remembrance  ! 

^'  Miss  Wade,  I  fear  you  are  unhappy,  through  causes  over 
which  I  have  no  influence." 

I  smiled,  thinking  of  the  experience  the  word  awakened, 
and  said,  "  I  have  an  unhappy  temper,  I  suppose." 

*'  I  did  not  say  that.'* 

"  It  is  an  easy  way  of  accounting  for  any  thing,"  said  I. 

**  It  may  be;  but  I  did  not  say  so.  What  I  wish  to  ap- 
proach, is  something  very  different.  My  husband  and  I 
have  exchanged  some  remarks  upon  the  subject,  when  we 
have  observed  with  pain  that  you  have  not  been  easy  with 
us." 

"Easy?  Oh!  You  are  such  great  people,  my  lady," 
said  I. 

"  I  am  unfortunate  in  using  a  word  which  may  convey  a 
meaning — and  evidently  does — quite  opposite  to  my  inten- 
tion." (She  had  not  expected  my  reply,  and  it  shamed 
her.)  '^  I  only  mean,  not  happy  with  us.  It  is  a  difficult 
topic  to  enter  on  ;  but  from  one  young  woman  to  another, 
perhaps — in  short,  we  have  been  apprehensive  that  you  may 
allow  some  family  circumstances  of  which  no  one  can  be 
more  innocent  than  yourself,  to  prey  upon  your  spirits.  If  so, 
let  us  entreat  you  not  to  make  them  a  cause  of  grief.  My 
husband  himself,  as  is  well  known,  formerly  had  a  very  dear 
sister  who  was  not  in  law  his  sister,  but  who  was  universally 
beloved  and  respected " 

I  saw  directly  that  they  had  taken  me  in,  for  the  sake  of 
the  dead  woman,  whoever  she  was,  and  to  have  that  boast  of 
me  and  advantage  of  me  ;  I  saw,  in  the  nurse's  knowledge  of 
it,  an  encouragement  to  goad  me  as  she  had  done  ;  and  I  saw, 
in  the  children's  shrinking  away,  a  vague  impression  that  I 
was  not  like  other  people.     I  left  that  house  that  night. 

After  one  or  two  short  and  very  similar  experiences,  which 
are  not  to  the  present  purpose,  I  entered  another  family 
where  I  had  but  one  pupil ;  a  girl  of  fifteen,  who  was  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  669 

only  daughter.  The  parents  here  were  elderly  people  ;  peo- 
ple of  station  and  rich.  A  nephew  whom  they  had  brought 
up,  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  house,  among  many  other 
visitors  ;  and  he  began  to  pay  me  attention.  I  was  resolute 
in  repulsing  him  ;  for  I  had  determined  when  I  went  there, 
that  no  one  should  pity  me  or  condescend  to  me.  But  he 
wrote  me  a  letter.  It  led  to  our  being  engaged  to  be  mar- 
ried. 

He  was  a  year  younger  than  I,  and  young-looking  even 
when  that  allowance  was  made.  He  was  on  absence  from 
India,  where  he  had  a  post  that  was  soon  to  grow  into  a  very 
good  one.  In  six  months  we  were  to  be  married,  and  were 
to  go  to  India.  I  was  to  stay  in  the  house,  and  was  to  be 
married  from  the  house.  Nobody  objected  to  any  part  of 
the  plan. 

I  can  not  avoid  saying  he  admired  me  ;  but  if  I  could,  I 
would.  Vanity  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  declaration,  for 
his  admiration  worried  me.  He  took  no  pains  to  hide  it ; 
and  caused  me  to  feel  among  the  rich  people  as  if  he  had 
bought  me  for  my  looks,  and  made  a  show  of  his  purchase 
to  justify  himself.  They  appraised  me  in  their  own  minds,  I 
saw,  and  were  curious  to  ascertain  what  my  full  value  was  I 
resolved  that  they  should  not  know.  I  was  immovable  and 
silent  before  them  ;  and  would  have  suffered  any  one  of  them 
to  kill  me  sooner  than  I  would  have  laid  myself  out  to  be- 
speak their  approval. 

He  told  me  I  did  not  do  myself  justice.  I  told  him  I  did, 
and  it  was  because  I  did  and  meant  to  do  so  to  the  last,  that 
I  would  not  stoop  to  propitiate  any  of  them.  He  was  con- 
cerned and  even  shocked,  when  I  added  that  I  wished  he 
would  not  parade  his  attachment  before  them;  but  he  said 
he  would  sacrifice  even  the  honest  impulses  of  his  affection 
to  my  peace. 

Under  that  pretense  he  began  to  retort  upon  me.  By  the 
hour  together,  he  would  keep  at  a  distance  from  me,  talking 
to  any  one  rather  than  to  me.  I  have  sat  alone  and  unnoticed, 
half  an  evening,  while  he  conversed  with  his  young  cousin, 
my  pupil.  I  have  seen  all  the  while,  in  people's  eyes,  that 
they  thought  the  two  looked  nearer  on  an  equality  than  he 
and  I.  I  have  sat,  divining  their  thoughts,  until  I  have  felt 
that  his  young  appearance  made  me  ridiculous,  and  have 
raged  against  myself  for  ever  loving  him. 

For  I  did  love  him  once.  Undeserving  as  he  was,  and 
little  as  he  thought  of  all  these  agonies  that  it  cost  me — 


670  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

agonies  which  should  have  made  him  wholly  and  gratefully 
mine  to  his  life's  end — I  loved  him.  I  bore  with  his  cousin's 
praising  him  to  my  face,  and  with  her  pretending  to  think 
that  it  pleased  me,  but  full  well  knowing  that  it  rankled  in 
my  breast  ;  for  his  sake.  While  I  have  sat  in  his  presence 
recalling  all  my  slights  and  wrongs,  and  deliberating  whether 
I  should  not  fly  from  the  house  at  once  and  never  see  him 
again — I  have  loved  him. 

His  aunt  (my  mistress,  you  will  please  to  remember)  delib- 
erately, willfully,  added  to  my  trials  and  vexations.  It  was 
her  delight  to  expatiate  on  the  style  in  which  we  were  to  live 
in  India,  and  on  the  establishment  we  should  keep,  and  the 
company  we  should  entertain  when  he  got  his  advancement. 
My  pride  rose  against  this  barefaced  way  of  pointing  out  the 
contrast  my  married  life  was  to  present  to  my  then  dependent 
and  inferior  position.  I  suppressed  my  indignation  ;  but  I 
showed  her  that  her  intention  w^as  not  lost  upon  me,  and  I  re- 
paid her  annoyances  by  affecting  humility.  What  she  de- 
scribed would  surely  be  a  great  deal  too  much  honor  for  me^  I 
would  tell  her.  I  was  afraid  I  might  not  be  able  to  support 
so  great  a  change.  Think  of  a  mere  governess,  her  daughter's 
governess,  coming  to  that  high  distinction  !  It  made  her 
uneasy,  and  made  them  all  uneasy,  when  I  answered  in  this 
way.     They  knew  that  I  fully  understood  her. 

It  was  at  the  time  when  my  troubles  were  at  their  highest, 
and  when  I  was  most  incensed  against  my  lover  for  his 
ingratitude  in  caring  as  little  as  he  did  for  the  innumerable 
distresses  and  mortifications  I  underwent  on  his  account, 
that  your  dear  friend,  Mr.  Gowan,  appeared  at  the  house. 
He  had  been  intimate  there  for  a  long  time,  but  had  been 
abroad.  He  understood  the  state  of  things  at  a  glance,  and 
he  understood  me. 

He  was  the  first  person  I  had  ever  seen  in  my  life  who  had 
understood  me.  He  was  not  in  the  house  three  times  before 
I  knew  that  he  accompanied  every  movement  of  my  mind. 
In  his  cold  easy  way  with  all  of  them,  and  with  me,  and 
with  the  whole  subject,  I  saw  it  clearly.  In  his  light  protest- 
ations of  admiration  of  my  future  husband,  in  his  enthusiasm 
regarding  our  engagement  and  our  prospects,  in  his  hopeful 
congratulations  on  our  future  wealth  and  his  despondent 
references  to  his  own  poverty — all  equally  hollow,  and  jest- 
ing, and  full  of  mockery — I  saw  it  clearly.  He  made  me 
feel  more  and  more  resentful,  and  more  and  more  contempti- 
ble, by  always  presenting  to  me  every  thing -that  surrounded 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  671 

me,  with  some  new  hateful  light  upon  it,  while  he  pretended 
to  exhibit  it  in  its  best  aspect  of  my  admiration  and  his  own. 
He  was  like  the  dressed-up  death  in  the  Dutch  series  ;  what- 
ever figure  he  took  upon  his  arm,  whether  it  was  youth  or 
age,  beauty  or  ugliness,  whether  he  danced  with  it,  sang 
with  it,  played  with  it,  or  prayed  with  it,  he  made  it  ghastly. 

You  will  understand,  then,  that  when  your  dear  friend 
complimented  me,  he  really  condoled  with  me  ;  that  when 
he  soothed  me  under  my  vexations,  he  laid  bare  every  smart- 
ing wound  I  had;  that  when  he  declared  my  *' faithful 
swain  "  to  be  "  the  most  loving  young  fellow  in  the  world, 
with  the  tenderest  heart  that  ever  beat,"  he  touched  my  old 
misgiving  that  I  was  made  ridiculous.  These  were  not  great 
services,  you  may  say.  They  were  acceptable  to  me,  because 
they  echoed  my  own  mind,  and  confirmed  my  own  knowl- 
edge. I  soon  began  to  like  the  society  of  your  dear  friend 
better  than  any  other. 

When  I  perceived  (which  I  did,  almost  as  soon)  that 
jealousy  was  growing  out  of  this,  I  liked  his  society  still 
better.  Had  I  not  been  subjected  to  jealousy,  and  were  the 
endurances  to  be  all  mine  ?  No.  Let  him  know  what  it 
was.  I  was  delighted  that  he  should  know  it  ;  I  was 
delighted  that  he  should  feel  keenly,  and  I  hoped  he  did. 
More  than  that.  He  was  tame  in  comparison  with  Mr. 
Gowan,  who  knew  how  to  address  me  on  equal  terms,  and 
how  to  anatomize  the  wretched  people  around  us. 

This  went  on,  until  the  aunt,  my  mistress,  took  it  upon 
herself  to  speak  to  me.  It  was  scarcely  worth  alluding  to  ; 
she  knew  I  meant  nothing  ;  but  she  suggested  from  herself, 
knowing  it  was  only  necessary  to  suggest,  that  it  might  be 
better  if  I  were  a  little  less  companionable  with  Mr.  Gowan. 

I  asked  her  how  she  could  answer  for  what  I  meant  ?  She 
could  always  answer,  she  replied,  for  my  meaning  nothing 
wrong.  I  thanked  her,  but  I  said  I  would  prefer  to  answer 
for  myself  and  to  myself.  Her  other  servants  would  prob- 
ably be  grateful  for  good  characters,  but  I  wanted  none. 

Other  conversation  followed,  and  induced  me  to  ask  her 
how  she  knew  that  it  was  only  necessary  for  her  to  make  a 
suggestion  to  me,  to  have  it  obeyed  ?  Did  she  presume  on 
my  birth,  or  on  my  hire  ?  I  was  not  bought,  body  and  soul. 
She  seemed  to  think  that  her  distinguished  nephew  had 
gone  into  a  slave-market  and  purchased  a  wife. 

It  would  probably  have  come,  sooner  or  later,  to  the  end 
to  which  it  did  come,  but  she  brought  it  to  its  issue  at  once. 


672  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

She  told  me,  with  assumed  commiseration,  that  I  had  an 
unhappy  temper.  On  this  repetition  of  the  old  wicked 
injury,  I  withheld  no  longer,  but  exposed  to  her  all  I  had 
known  of  her  and  seen  in  her,  and  all  I  had  undergone 
within  myself  since  I  had  occupied  the  despicable  position 
of  being  engaged  to  her  nephew.  I  told  her  that  Mr. 
Gowan  was  the  only  relief  I  had  had  in  my  degradation  ; 
that  I  had  borne  it  too  long,  and  that  I  shook  it  off  too  late  ; 
but  that  I  would  see  none  of  them  more.     And  I  never  did. 

Your  dear  friend  followed  me  to  my  retreat,  and  was  very 
droll  on  the  severance  of  the  connection  ;  thougli  he  was 
sorry,  too,  for  the  excellent  people  (in  their  way  the  best 
he  had  ever  met),  and  deplored  the  necessity  of  breaking 
mere  house-flies  on  the  wheel.  He  protested  before  long, 
and  far  more  truly  than  I  then  supposed,  that  he  was  not 
worth  acceptance  by  a  woman  of  such  endowments,  and 
such  power  of  character  ;  but — well — well  ! 

Your  dear  friend  amused  me  and  amused  himself  as  long 
as  it  suited  his  inclinations  ;  and  then  reminded  me  that  we 
were  both  people  of  the  world,  that  we  both  understood  man- 
kind, that  we  both  knew  there  was  no  such  thing  as  romance, 
that  we  were  both  prepared  for  going  different  ways  to  seek 
our  fortunes  like  people  of  sense,  and  that  we  both  foresaw 
that  whenever  we  encountered  one  another  again  we  should 
meet  as  the  best  friends  on  earth.  So  he  said,  and  I  did  not 
(contradict  him. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  I  found  that  he  was  courting 
his  present  wife,  and  that  she  had  been  taken  away  to  be  out 
of  his  reach.  I  hated  her  then,  quite  as  much  as  I  hate  her 
now;  and  naturally,  therefore,  could  desire  nothing  better 
than  that  she  should  marry  him.  But  I  was  restlessly  curi- 
ous to  look  at  her — so  curious  that  I  felt  it  to  be  one  of  the 
few  sources  of  entertainment  left  to  me.  I  traveled  a  little; 
traveled  until  I  found  myself  in  her  society,  and  in  yours. 
Your  dear  friend,  I  think,  was  not  known  to  you  then,  and 
had  not  given  you  any  of  those  signal  marks  of  his  friend- 
ship which  he  has  bestowed  upon  you. 

In  that  company  I  found  a  girl,  in  various  circumstances 
of  whose  position  there  was  a  singular  likeness  to  my  own, 
and  in  whose  character  I  was  interested  and  pleased  to  see 
much  of  the  rising  against  swollen  patronage  and  selfishness, 
calling  themselves  kindness,  protection,  benevolence,  and 
other  fine  names,  which  I  have  described  as  inherent  in  my 
nature.     I  often  heard  it  said,  too,  that  she  had  '*  an  unhappy 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  673 

temper.*'  Well  understanding  what  was  meant  by  the  con- 
venient phrase,  and  wanting  a  companion  with  a  knowledge 
of  what  I  knew,  I  thought  I  would  try  to  release  the  girl  from 
her  bondage  and  sense  of  injustice.  I  have  no  occasion  to 
relate  that  I  succeeded. 

We  have   been   together   ever  since,   sharing   my    small 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

WHO    PASSES   BY    THIS   ROAD    SO    LATE? 

Arthur  Clennam  had  made  his  unavailing  expedition  to 
Calais,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  pressure  of  business.  A  cer- 
tain barbaric  power  with  valuable  possessions  on  the  map  of 
the  world,  had  occasion  for  the  services  of  one  or  two  engi- 
neers, quick  in  invention  and  determined  in  execution  ;  prac- 
tical men,  who  could  make  the  men  and  means  their  ingenuity 
perceived  to  be  wanted,  out  of  the  best  materials  they  could 
find  at  hand  ;  and  who  were  as  bold  and  fertile  in  the  adap- 
tation of  such  materials  to  their  purpose,  as  in  the  concep- 
tion of  their  purpose  itself.  This  power,  being  a  barbaric 
one,  had  no  idea  of  stowing  away  a  great  national  object  in 
a  circumlocution  office,  as  strong  wine  is  hidden  from  the 
light  in  a  cellar,  until  its  fire  and  youth  are  gone,  and  the 
laborers  who  worked  in  the  vineyard  and  pressed  the  grapes 
are  dust.  With  characteristic  ignorance,  it  acted  on  the 
most  decided  and  energetic  notions  of  how  to  do  it;  and 
never  showed  the  least  respect  for,  or  gave  any  quarter  to, 
the  great  political  science  how  not  to  do  it.  Indeed,  it  had 
a  barbarous  way  of  striking  the  latter  art  and  mystery  dead, 
in  the  person  of  any  enlightened  subject  who  practiced  it. 

Accordingly,  the  men  who  were  w^anted,  were  sought  out 
and  found;  which  was  in  itself  a  most  uncivilized  and  irregu- 
lar way  of  proceeding.  Being  found,  they  were  treated  with 
great  confidence  and  honor  (which  again  showed  dense  politi- 
cal ignorance),  and  were  invited  to  come  at  once  and  do 
what  they  had  to  do.  In  short,  they  were  regarded  as  men 
who  meant  to  do  it,  engaging  with  other  men  who  meant  it 
to  be  done. 

Daniel  Doyce  was  one  of  the  chosen.  There  was  no  fore- 
seeing at  that  time  whether  he  would  be  absent  months,  or 
years.     The   preparations  for  his   departure,  and   the  con- 


674  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

scientious  arrangement  for  him  of  all  the  details  and  results 
of  their  joint  business,  had  necessitated  labor  v/ithin  a  short 
compass  of  time,  which  had  occupied  Clennam  day  and  night. 
He  had  slipped  across  the  water  in  his  first  leisure,  and  had 
slipped  as  quickly  back  again  for  his  farewell  interview  with 
Doyce„ 

Him  Arthur  now  showed,  with  pains  and  care,  the  state 
of  their  gains  and  losses,  responsibilities  and  prospects. 
Daniel  went  through  it  all  in  his  patient  manner,  and  ad- 
mired it  all  exceedingly.  He  audited  the  accounts,  as  if 
they  were  a  far  more  ingenious  piece  of  mechanism  than  he 
had  ever  constructed,  and  afterward  stood  looking  at  them, 
weighing  his  hat  over  his  head  by  the  brims,  as  if  he  were; 
absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  some  wonderful  engine. 

^*  It's  all  beautiful,  Clennam,  in  its  regularity  and  order. 
Nothing  can  be  plainer.     Nothing  can  be  better." 

^'  I  am  glad  you  approve,  Doyce.  Now,  as  to  the  manage- 
ment of  our  capital  while  you  are  away,  and  as  to  the  con- 
version of  so  much  of  it  as  the  business  may  need  from  time 
to  time "     His  partner  stopped  him. 

"  As  to  that,  and  as  to  every  thing  else  of  that  kind,  all 
rests  with  you.  You  will  continue  in  all  such  matters  to  act 
for  both  of  us,  as  you  have  done  hitherto,  and  to  lighten  my 
mind  of  a  load  it  is  much  relieved  from." 

*' Though,  as  I  often  tell  you,"  returned  Clennam,  "you 
unreasonably  depreciate  your  business  qualities." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Doyce,  smiling.  '*  And  perhaps  not. 
Anyhow,  I  have  a  calling  that  I  have  studied  more  than  such 
matters,  and  that  I  am  better  fitted  for.  I  have  perfect  con- 
fidence in  my  partner,  and  I  am  satisfied  that  he  will  do  what 
is  best.  If  I  have  a  prejudice  connected  with  money  and 
money  figures,"  continued  Doyce,  laying  that  plastic  work- 
man's thumb  of  his  on  the  lappel  of  his  partner's  coat,  "  it  is 
against  speculating.  I  don't  think  I  have  any  other.  I  dare 
say  I  entertain  that  prejudice,  only  because  I  have  never 
given  my  mind  fully  to  the  subject." 

**  But  you  shouldn't  call  it  a  prejudice,"  said  Clennam. 
"  My  dear  Doyce,  it  is  the  soundest  sense." 

"  I  am  glad  you  think^o,"  returned  Doyce,  with  his  gray 
eye  looking  kind  and  bright. 

"  It  so  happens,"  said  Clennam,  "that  just  now,  not  half 
an  hour  before  you  came  down,  I  was  saying  the  same  thing 
to  Pancks,  who  looked  in  here.  We  both  agreed  that,  to 
travel  out  of  safe  investments,  is  one  of  the  most  dangerous, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  675 

as  it  is  one  of  the  most  common,  of  those  follies  which  often 
deserve  the  name  of  vices." 

*^  Pancks  ?  "  said  Doyce,  tilting  up  his  hat  at  the  back,  and 
nodding  with  an  air  of  confidence.  "Ay,  ay,  ay!  That's  a 
cautious  fellow.*' 

*'  He  is  a  very  cautious  fellow  indeed,"  returned  Arthur. 
*'  Quite  a  specimen  of  caution." 

They  both  appeared  to  derive  a  larger  amount  of  satis- 
faction from  the  cautious  character  of  Mr.  Pancks  than 
was  quite  intelligible,  judged  by  the  surface  of  their  conver- 
sation. 

'^  And  now,"  said  Daniel,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  as  time 
and  tide  wait  for  no  one,  my  trusty  partner,  and  as  I  am 
ready  for  starting,  bag  and  baggage,  at  the  gate  below,  let 
me  say  a  last  word.     I  want  you  to  grant  a  request  of  mine." 

*' Any  request  you  can  make.  Except,"  Clennam  was 
quick  with  his  exception,  for  his  partner's  face  was  quick  in 
suggesting  it,  '*  except  that  I  will  abandon  your  invention." 

**  That's  the  request,  and  you  know  it  is,"  said  Doyce. 

"  I  say,  no,  then.  I  say  positively,  no.  Now  that  I  have 
begun,  I  will  have  some  definite  reason,  some  responsible 
statement,  something  in  the  nature  of  a  real  answer,  from 
those  people." 

"  You  will  not,"  returned  Doyce,  shaking  his  head.  "  Take 
my  word  for  it,  you  never  will." 

"At  least,  I'll  try,"  said  Clennam.  "It  will  do  me  no 
harm  to  try." 

"  I  am  not  certain  of  that,"  rejoined  Doyce,  laying  his 
hand  persuasively  on  his  shoulder.  "  It  has  done  me  harm, 
my  friend.  It  has  aged  me,  tired  me,  vexed  me,  disap- 
pointed me.  It  does  no  man  any  good  to  have  his  patience 
worn  out,  and  to  think  himself  ill-used.  I  fancy,  even  al- 
ready, that  unavailing  attendance  on  delays  and  evasions  has 
made  you  something  less  elastic  than  you  used  to  be." 

'^  Private  anxieties  may  have  done  that  for  the  moment," 
said  Clennam,  ''  but  not  official  harrying.  Not  yet.  I  am 
not  hurt  yet." 

"  Then  you  won't  grant  my  request  ?  " 

"Decidedly,  no,"  said  Clennam.  "  I  should  be  ashamed 
if  I  submitted  to  be  so  soon  driven  out  of  the  field,  where  a 
much  older  and  a  much  more  sensitively  interested  man  con- 
tended with  fortitude  so  long." 

As  there  was  no  moving  him,  Daniel  Doyce  returned  the 
grasp  of  his   hand,  and,  casting  a  farewell  look  round  the 


676  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

counting-house,  went  down  stairs  with  him.  Doyce  was  to  go 
to  Southampton  to  join  the  small  staff  of  his  fellow-travelers, 
and  a  coach  was  at  the  gate,  well-furnished  and  packed,  and 
ready  to  take  him  there.  The  workmen  were  at  the  gate  to 
see  him  off,  and  were  mightily  proud  of  him.  *'  Good  luck  to 
you,  Mr.  Doyce  !  "  said  one  of  the  number.  "Wherever  you 
go,  they'll  find  as  they've  got  a  man  among  'em,  a  man  as 
knows  his  tools  and  as  his  tools  knows,  a  man  as  is  willing 
and  a  man  as  is  able,  and  if  that's  not  a  man  where  is  a 
man!  "  This  oration  from  a  gruff  volunteer  in  the  back- 
ground, not  previously  suspected  of  any  powers  in  that  way, 
was  received  with  three  loud  cheers;  and  the  speaker  became 
a  distinguished  character  forever  afterward.  In  the  midst 
of  the  three  loud  cheers,  Daniel  gave  them  all  a  hearty 
**  Good-by,  men  !  "  and  the  coach  disappeared  from  sight, 
as  if  the  concussion  of  the  air  had  blown  it  out  of  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard. 

Mr.  Baptist,  as  a  grateful  little  fellow  in  a  position  of  trust, 
was  among  the  workmen,  and  had  done  as  much  toward  the 
cheering  as  a  mere  foreigner  could.  In  truth,  no  men  on 
earth  can  cheer  like  Englishmen,  who  do  so  rally  one  another's 
blood  and  spirit  when  they  cheer  in  earnest,  that  the  stir  is 
like  the  rush  of  their  whole  history,  with  all  its  stand- 
ards waving  at  once,  from  Saxon  Alfred's  downward.  Mr. 
Baptist  had  been  in  a  manner  whirled  away  before  the  onset, 
and  was  taking  his  breath  in  quite  a  scared  condition  when 
Clennam  beckoned  him  to  follow  up  stairs,  and  return  the 
books  and  papers  to  their  places. 

In  the  lull  consequent  on  the  departure — in  that  first 
vacuity  which  ensues  on  every  separation,  foreshadowing  the 
great  separation  that  is  always  overhanging  all  mankind — 
Arthur  stood  at  his  desk,  looking  dreamily  out  at  a  gleam  of 
sun.  But  his  liberated  attention  soon  reverted  to  the  theme 
that  was  foremost  in  his  thoughts,  and  began,  for  the  hun- 
dredth time,  to  dwell  upon  every  circumstance  that  had 
impressed  itself  upon  his  mind,  on  the  mysterious  night  when 
he  had  seen  the  man  at  his  mother's.  Again  the  man  jostled 
him  in  the  crooked  street,  again  he  followed  the  man  and 
lost  him,  again  he  came  upon  the  man  in  the  court-yard 
looking  at  the  house,  again  he  followed  the  man  and  stood 
beside  him  on  the  door-steps. 


*'  Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 

Cornpagnon  de  la  Marjolainc : 
Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 
Always  gay  '  " 


LITTLE  DORRrr.    .  677 

It  was  not  the  first  time,  by  many,  that  he  had  recalled 
the  song  of  the  child's  game,  of  which  the  fellow  had  hummed 
this  verse  while  they  stood  side  by  side  ;  but  he  was  so 
unconscious  of  having  repeated  it  audibly,  that  he  started  to 
hear  the  next  verse, 

"  Of  all  the  king's  knights'  tis  the  flower, 
Compagnon  de  la  Marjolaine  ! 
Of  all  the  king's  knights  'tis  the  flower, 
Always  gay  !  " 

Cavalletto  had  deferentially  suggested  the  words  and 
tune  ;  supposing  him  to  have  stopped  short  for  want  of 
more. 

^'  Ah  !     You  know  the  song,  Cavalletto  ?  " 

"  By  Bacchus,  yes,  sir  !  They  all  know  it  in  France.  I 
have  heard  it  many  times,  sung  by  the  little  children.  The 
last  time  when  it  I  have  heard,"  said  Mr.  Baptist,  formerly 
Cavalletto,  who  usually  went  back  to  his  native  construction 
of  sentences  when  his  memory  went  near  home,  "  is  from  a 
sweet  little  voice.  A  little  voice,  very  pretty,  very  innocent. 
Altro  !  " 

^'  The  last  time  I  heard  it,"  returned  Arthur,  "was  in  a 
voice  quite  the  reverse  of  pretty,  and  quite  the  reverse  of 
innocent."  He  said  it  more  to  himself  than  to  his  companion, 
and  added  to  himself,  repeating  the  man's  next  words. 
*'  Death  of  my  life,  sir,  it's  my  character  to  be  impatient  !  " 

*'  EH  !  "  cried  Cavalletto,  astounded,  and  with  all  his 
color  gone  in  a  moment. 

*'  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Sir  !  You  know  where  I  have  heard  that  song  the  last 
time  ?  " 

With  his  rapid  native  action,  his  hands  made  the  outline 
of  a  high  hook  nose,  pushed  his  eyes  near  together,  disheveled 
his  hair,  puffed  out  his  upper  lip  to  represent  a  thick  mus- 
tache, and  threw  the  heavy  end  of  an  ideal  cloak  over  his 
shoulder.  While  doing  this,  with  a  swiftness  incredible  to 
one  who  has  not  watched  an  Italian  peasant,  he  indicated  a 
very  remarkable  and  sinister  smile.  The  whole  change 
passed  over  him  like  a  flash  of  light,  and  he  stood  in  the 
same  instant,  pale  and  astonished,  before  his  patron. 

*'  In  the  name  of  fate  and  wonder,"  said  Clennam,  **  what 
do  you  mean  ?  Do  you  know  a  man  of  the  name  of  Blan- 
dois  ?  " 

'*  No  ! "  said  Mr.  Baptist,  shaking  his  head. 

"  You  have  just  now  described  a  man  who  was  by,  when 
you  heard  that  song  ;  have  you  not  ?  " 


678  LITTLE  DORRFr. 

**  Yes  !  "  said  Mr.  Baptist,  nodding  fifty  times. 

"  And  was  he  not  called  Blandois  ?  " 

''  No  !  "  said  Mr.  Baptist.  "  Altro,  Altro,  Altro,  Altro  !  " 
He  could  not  reject  the  name  sufficiently,  with  his  head  and 
right  forefinger  going  at  once. 

'^  Stay  !  "  cried  Clennam,  spreading  out  the  handbill  on  his 
desk.  ^^  Was  this  the  man  ?  You  can  understand  what  I 
read  aloud  ? " 

^'Altogether.     Perfectly." 

'^  But  look  at  it,  too.  Come  here  and  look  over  me,  while 
I  read." 

Mr.  Baptist  approached,  followed  every  word  with  his 
quick  eyes,  saw  and  heard  it  all  out  with  the  greatest  impa- 
tience, then  clapped  his  two  hands  fiat  upon  the  bill  as  if  he 
had  fiercely  caught  some  noxious  creature,  and  cried,  look- 
ing eagerly  at  Clennam,  ^'  It  is  the  man  !     Behold  him  !  " 

"This  is  of  far  greater  moment  to  me,"  said  Clennam,  in 
great  agitation,  "  than  you  can  imagine.  Tell  me  where  you 
knew  the  man." 

Mr.  Baptist,  releasing  the  paper  very  slowly  and  with  much 
discomfiture,  and  drawing  himself  back  two  or  three  paces, 
and  making  as  though  he  dusted  his  hands,  returned,  very 
much  against  his  will  : 

''At  Marsiglia — Marseilles." 

"  What  was  he  ?  " 

"  A  prisoner,  and — Altro  !  I  believe  yes  ! — an,"  Mr. 
Baptist  crept  closer  again  to  whisper  it,  "  assassin  !  " 

Clennam  fell  back  as  if  the  word  had  struck  him  a  blow  : 
so  terrible  did  it  make  his  mother's  communication  with  the 
man  appear.  Cavalletto  dropped  on  one  knee,  and  implored 
him,  with  a  redundancy  of  gesticulation,  to  hear  what  had 
brought  himself  into  such  foul  company. 

He  told  with  perfect  truth  how  it  had  come  of  a  little  con- 
traband trading,  and  how  he  had  in  time  been  released  from 
prison,  and  how  he  had  gone  away  from  those  antecedents. 
How,  at  the  house  of  entertainment  called  the  Break  of  Day 
at  Chalons  on  the  Saone,  he  had  been  awakened  in  his  bed 
at  night,  by  the  same  assassin,  then  assuming  the  name  of 
Lagnier,  though  his  name  had  formerly  been  Rigaud  ;  how 
the  assassin  had  proposed  that  they  should  join  their  fortunes 
together  ;  how  he  held  the  assassin  in  such  dread  and  aver- 
sion that  he  had  fled  from  him  at  daylight,  and  how  he  had 
ever  since  been  haunted  by  the  fear  of  seeing  the  assassin 
again  and  being  claimed  by  him  as  an  acquaintance.     When 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  679 

he  had  related  this,  with  an  emphasis  and  poise  on  the  word, 
assassin,  peculiarly  belonging  to  his  own  language,  and  which 
did  not  serve  to  render  it  less  terrible  to  Clennam,  he  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet,  pounced  upon  the  bill  again,  and 
with  a  vehemence  that  would  have  been  absolute  madness 
in  any  man  of  Northern  origin,  cried  ^'  Behold  the  same  as- 
sassin !     Here  he  is  !  " 

In  his  passionate  raptures,  he  at  first  forgot  the  fact  that 
he  had  lately  seen  the  assassin  in  London.  On  his  remem- 
bering it,  it  suggested  hope  to  Clennam  that  the  recognition 
might  be  of  later  date  than  the  night  of  the  visit  at  his  moth- 
er's ;  but  Cavalletto  was  too  exact  and  clear  about  time 
and  place,  to  leave  any  opening  for  doubt  that  it  had  pre- 
ceded that  occasion. 

"  Listen,"  said  Arthur,  very  seriously.  "  This  man,  as  we 
have  read  here,  has  wholly  disappeared." 

^^  Of  it  I  am  well  content  !  "  said  Cavalletto,  raising  his 
eyes  piously.  "  A  thousand  thanks  to  heaven  I  Accursed 
assassin  !  " 

"  Not  so,"  returned  Clennam  ;  "for  until  something  more 
is  heard  of  him,  I  can  never  know  an  hour's  peace." 

"  Enough,  benefactor  ;  that  is  quite  another  thing.  A  mil- 
lion of  excuses  !  " 

"  Now,  Cavalletto,"  said  Clennam,  gently  turning  him  by 
the  arm,  so  that  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  "  I  am 
certain  that  for  the  little  I  have  been  able  to  do  for  you,  you 
are  the  most  sincerely  grateful  of  men." 

"I  swear  it  !  "  cried  the  other. 

"  I  know  it.  If  you  could  find  this  man,  or  discover 
what  has  become  of  him,  or  gain  any  later  intelligence 
whatever  of  him,  you  would  render  me  a  service  above 
any  other  service  I  could  receive  in  the  world,  and  would 
make  me  (with  far  greater  reason)  as  grateful  to  you  as  you 
are  to  me." 

*  I  know  not  where  to  look,"  cried  the  little  man,  kissing 
Arthur's  hand  in  a  transport.  "  I  know  not  where  to  begin. 
I  know  not  where  to  go.  But,  courage  !  Enough  !  It 
matters  not  !     I  go,  in  this  instant  of  time  !  " 

*'  Not  a  word  to  any  one  but  me,  Cavalletto." 

"  Al-tro  !  "  cried  Cavalletto.  And  was  gone  with  great 
speed. 


68o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  XXIIL 

MISTRESS  AFFERY  MAKES  A  CONDITIONAL  PROMISE  RESPECTING 
HER     DREAMS. 

Left  alone,  with  the  expressive  looks  and  gestures  of  Mr. 
Baptist,  otherwise  Giovanni  Baptista  Cavalletto,  vividly  be- 
fore him,  Clennam  entered  on  a  weary  day.  It  was  in  vain  that 
he  tried  to  control  his  attention,  by  directing  it  to  any  business 
occupation  or  train  of  thought  ;  it  rode  at  anchor  by  the  haunt- 
ing topic,  and  would  hold  to  no  other  idea.  As  though  a 
criminal  should  be  chained  in  a  stationary  boat  on  a  deep 
clear  river,  condemned,  whatever  countless  leagues  of  water 
flowed  past  him,  always  to  see  the  body  of  the  fellow-creat- 
ure he  had  drowned  lying  at  the  bottom,  immovable  and 
unchangeable,  except  as  the  eddies  made  it  broad  or  long, 
now  expanding,  now  contracting  its  terrible  lineaments  ;  so 
Arthur,  below  the  shifting  current  of  transparent  thoughts 
and  fancies  which  were  gone  and  succeeded  by  others  as 
soon  as  come,  saw,  steady  and  dark,  and  not  to  be  stirred 
from  its  place,  the  one  subject  that  he  endeavored  with  all 
his  might  to  rid  himself  of,  and  that  he  could  not  fly  from.  * 

The  assurance  he  now  had,  that  Blandois,  whatever  his 
right  name,  was  one  of  the  worst  of  characters,  greatly  aug- 
mented the  burden  of  his  anxieties.  Though  the  disap- 
pearance should  be  accounted  for  to-morrow,  the  fact  that  his 
mother  had  been  in  communication  with  such  a  man,  would 
remain  unalterable.  That  the  communication  had  been  of  a 
secret  kind,  and  that  she  had  been  submissive  to  him  and 
afraid  of  him,  he  hoped  might  be  known  to  no  one  beyond 
himself  ;  yet,  knowing  it,  how  could  he  separate  it  from  his 
old  vague  fears,  and  how  believe  that  there  was  nothing  evil 
in  such  relations? 

Her  resolution  not  to  enter  on  the  question  with  him,  and 
his  knowledge  of  her  indomitable  character,  enhanced  his 
sense  of  helplessness.  It  was  like  the  oppression  of  a  dream, 
to  believe  that  shame  and  exposure  were  impending  over  her 
and  his  father's  memory,  and  to  be  shut  out,  as  by  a  brazen 
wall,  from  the  possibility  of  coming  to  their  aid.  The  pur- 
pose he  had  brought  home  to  his  native  country,  and  had 
ever  since  kept  in  view,  was,  with  her  greatest  determination, 
defeated  by  his  mother  herself,  at  the  time  of  all  others  when 
he  feared  that  it  pressed  most     His  advice,  energy,  activity, 


LlTTl.E  DORRIT.  6St 

money,  credit,  all  its  resources,  whatsoever,  were  all  made 
useless.  If  she  had  been  possessed  of  the  old  fabled  in- 
fluence, and  had  turned  those  who  looked  upon  her  into 
stone,  she  could  not  have  rendered  him  more  completely 
powerless  (so  it  seemed  to  him  in  his  distress  of  mind)  than 
she  did,  when  she  turned  her  unyielding  face  to  his,  in  her 
gloomy  room. 

But  the  light  of  that  day's  discovery,  shining  on  these 
considerations,  roused  him  to  take  a  more  decided  course  of 
action.  Confident  in  the  rectitude  of  his  purpose,  and  im- 
pelled by  a  sense  of  overhanging  danger  closing  in  around, 
he  resolved,  if  his  mother  would  still  admit  of  no  approach, 
to  make  a  desperate  appeal  to  Affery.  If  she  could  be 
brought  to  become  communicative,  and  to  do  what  lay  in 
her  to  break  the  spell  of  secrecy  that  enshrouded  the  house, 
he  might  shake  off  the  paralysis  of  which  every  hour  that 
passed  over  his  head  made  him  more  acutely  sensible.  This 
was  the  result  of  his  anxiety,  and  this  was  the  decision  he 
put  in  practice  when  the  day  closed  in. 

His  first  disappointment,  on  arriving  at  the  house,  was  to 
find  the  door  open,  and  Mr.  Flintwinch  smoking  a  pipe  on 
the  steps.  If  circumstances  had  been  commonly  favorable, 
Mistress  Affery  would  have  opened  the  door  to  his  knock. 
Circumstances  being  uncommonly  unfavorable,the  door  stood 
open,  and  Mr.  Flintwinch  was  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  steps. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Good-evening,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch. 

The  smoke  came  crookedly  out  of  Mr.  Flintwinch's  mouth, 
as  if  it  circulated  through  the  whole  of  his  wry  figure  and 
came  back  by  his  wry  throat,  before  coming  forth  to  mingle 
with  the  smoke  from  the  crooked  chimneys  and  the  mists 
from  the  crooked  river. 

"  Have  you  any  news  ?  '*  said  Arthur. 

"  We  have  no  news,"  said  Jeremiah. 

"I  mean  of  the  foreign  man,"  Arthur  exclaimed. 

"/mean  of  the  foreign  man,"  said  Jeremiah. 

He  looked  so  grim,  as  he  stood  askew,  with  the  knot  of 
his  cravat  under  his  ear,  that  the  thought  passed  into  Clen- 
nam's  mind,  and  not  for  the  first  time  by  many,  could  Flint- 
winch for  a  purpose  of  his  own  have  got  rid  of  Blandois  ? 
could  it  have  been  his  secret,  and  his  safety,  that  were  at 
issue  ?  He  was  small  and  bent,  and  perhaps  not  actively 
strong  ;  yet  he  was  as  tough  as  an  old  yew-tree,  and  as  crafty 
as  an  old  jackdaw.     Such  a   man,  coming  behind  a  much 


682  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

younger  and  more  vigorous  man,  and  having  the  will  to  put 
an  end  to  him  and  not  relenting,  might  do  it  pretty  surely  in 
that  solitary  place  at  a  late  hour. 

While,  in  the  morbid  condition  of  his  thoughts,  these 
thoughts  drifted  over  the  main  one  that  was  always  in  Clen- 
nam's  mind,  Mr.  Flintwinch,  regarding  the  opposite  house 
over  the  gateway  with  his  neck  twisted  and  one  eye  shut 
up,  stood  smoking  with  a  vicious  expression  upon  him;  more 
as  if  he  were  trying  to  bite  off  the  stem  of  his  pipe,  than  as 
if  he  were  enjoying  it.  Yet  he  was  enjoying  it  in  his  own 
way. 

^'  You'll  be  able  to  take  my  likeness,  the  next  time  you  call, 
Arthur,  I  should  think,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  dryly,  as  he 
stooped  to  knock  the  ashes  out. 

Rather  conscious  and  confused,  Arthur  asked  his  pardon, 
if  he  had  stared  at  him  unpolitely.  *'  But  my  mind  runs  so 
much  upon  this  matter,"  he  said,  *^  that  I  lose  myself." 

"  Hah  !  Yet  I  don't  see,"  returned  Mr.  Flintwinch,  quite 
at  his  leisure,  *'  why  it  should  trouble  7^?;/,  Arthur." 

"  No  ? " 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  very  shortly  and  decidedly  ; 
much  as  if  he  were  of  the  canine  race,  and  snapped  at  Ar- 
thur's hand. 

"  Is  it  nothing  to  me  to  see  those  placards  about  ?  Is  it 
nothing  to  me  to  see  my  mother's  name  and  residence  hawked 
up  and  down,  in  such  an  association  ? " 

"  I  don't  see,"  returned  Mr.  Flintwinch,  scraping  his  horny 
cheek,  "that  it  need  signify  much  to  you.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  do  see,  Arthur,"  glancing  up  at  the  windows  ;  "  I  see 
the  light  of  fire  and  candle  in  your  mother's  room  !  " 

"And  what  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  I  read  by  it,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  screwing 
himself  at  him,  "  that  if  it's  advisable  (as  the  proverb  says  it 
is)  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie,  it's  just  as  advisable,  perhaps,  to 
let  missing  dogs  lie.  Let  'em  be.  They  generally  turn  up 
soon  enough." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  turned  short  round  when  he  had  made 
this  remark,  and  went  into  the  dark  hall.  Clennam  stood 
there,  following  him  with  his  eyes,  as  he  dipped  for  a  light 
in  the  phosphorus-box  in  the  little  room  at  the  side,  got  one 
after  three  or  four  dips,  and  lighted  the  dim  lamp  against 
the  wall.  All  the  while,  Clennam  was  pursuing  the  proba- 
bilities— rather  as  if  they  were  being  shown  to  him  by  an  in- 
visible hand  than  as  if  he  himself  were  conjuring  them  up — ' 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  683 

of  Mr.  Flintwinch's  ways  and  means  of  doing  that  darker 
deed,  and  removing  its  traces  by  any  of  the  black  avenues  of 
shadow  that  lay  around  them. 

*'  Now,  sir,"  said  the  testy  Jeremiah  ;  "  will  it  be  agreeable 
to  walk  up  stairs  ?  " 

**  My  mother  is  alone,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Not  alone,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch.  **  Mr.  Casby  and  his 
daughter  are  with  her.  They  came  in  while  I  was  smoking, 
and  I  staid  behind  to  have  my  smoke  out." 

This  was  the  second  disappointment.  Arthur  made  no 
remark  upon  it,  and  repaired  to  his  mother's  room,  where 
Mr.  Casby  and  Flora  had  been  taking  tea,  anchovy  paste, 
and  hot  buttered  toast.  The  relics  of  those  delicacies  were 
not  yet  removed,  either  from  the  table,  or  from  the  scorched 
countenance  of  Affery,  who,  with  kitchen  toasting-fork  still 
in  her  hand,  looked  like  a  sort  of  allegorical  personage  ;  ex- 
cept that  she  had  a  considerable  advantage  over  the  general 
run  of  such  personages,  in  point  of  significant  emblematical 
purpose. 

Flora  had  spread  her  bonnet  and  shawl  upon  the  bed, 
with  a  care  indicative  of  an  intention  to  stay  some  time. 
Mr.  Casby,  too,  was  beaming  near  the  hob,  with  his  benevo- 
lent knobs  shining  as  if  the  warm  butter  of  the  toast  were 
exuding  through  the  patriarchal  skull,  and  with  his  face  as 
ruddy  as  if  the  coloring  matter  of  the  anchovy  paste  were 
mantling  in  the  patriarchal  visage.  Seeing  this,  as  he  ex- 
changed the  usual  salutations,  Clennam  decided  to  speak  to 
his  mother  without  postponement. 

It  had  long  been  customary,  as  she  never  changed  her 
room,  for  those  who  had  any  thing  to  say  to  her  apart,  to 
wheel  her  to  her  desk  ;  where  she  sat,  usually  with  the  back 
of  her  chair  turned  toward  the  rest  of  the  room,  and  the 
person  who  talked  with  her  seated  in  the  corner,  on  a  stool 
which  was  always  set  in  that  place  for  that  purpose.  Except 
that  it  was  long  since  the  mother  and  son  had  spoken 
together  without  the  intervention  of  a  third  person,  it  was  an 
ordinary  matter  of  course  within  the  experience  of  visitors 
for  Mrs.  Clennam  to  be  asked,  with  a  word  of  apology  for 
the  interruption,  if  she  could  be  spoken  with  on  a  matter  of 
business,  and,  on  her  replying  in  the  affirmative,  to  be 
wheeled  into  the  position  described. 

Therefore,  when  Arthur  now  made  such  an  apology,  and 
such  a  request,  and  moved  her  to  her  desk  and  seated  him- 
self on  the  stool,  Mrs.  Finching  merely  began  to  talk  louder 


684  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  faster,  as  a  delicate  hint  that  she  could  overhear  noth- 
ing, and  Mr.  Casby  stroked  his  long  white  locks  with  sleepy 
calmness. 

"  Mother,  I  have  heard  something  to-day  which  I  feel  per- 
suaded you  don't  know,  and  which  I  think  you  should  know, 
of  the  antecedents  of  that  man  I  saw  here.'* 

"  I  know  nothing  of  the  antecedents  of  the  man  you  saw 
here,  Arthur." 

She  spoke  aloud.  He  had  lowered  his  own  voice  ;  but 
she  rejected  that  advance  toward  confidence  as  she  rejected 
every  other,  and  spoke  in  her  usual  key  and  in  her  usual  stern 
voice. 

^*  I  have  received  it  on  no  circuitous  information  ;  it  has 
come  to  me  direct." 

She  asked  him,  exactly  as  before,  if  he  were  there  to  tell 
her  what  it  was  ? 

"  I  thought  it  right  that  you  should  know  it." 

"  And  what  is  it  ?  " 

*'  He  has  been  a  prisoner  in  a  French  jail.'* 

She  answered  with  composure,  ^^  I  should  think  that  very 
likely." 

^^  But  in  a  jail  for  criminals,  mother.  On  an  accusation 
of  murder." 

She  started  at  the  word,  and  her  looks  expressed  her 
natural  horror.  Yet  she  still  spoke  aloud,  when  she  de- 
manded : — 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?  ** 

"  A  man  who  was  his  fellow  prisoner.** 

*'  That  man's  antecedents,  I  suppose,  were  not  known  to 
you,  before  he  told  you  ?  '* 

"No." 

"  Though  the  man  himself  was  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  My  case,  and  Flintwinch's,  in  respect  to  this  other  man  ! 
I  dare  say  the  resemblance  is  not  so  exact,  though,  as  that 
your  informant  became  known  to  you  through  a  letter  from 
a  correspondent,  w4th  whom  he  had  deposited  money  ? 
How  does  that  part  of  the  parallel  stand?  " 

Arthur  had  no  choice  but  to  say  that  his  informant  had 
not  become  known  to  him  through  the  agency  of  any  such 
credentials,  or  indeed  of  any  credentials  at  all.  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam's  attentive  frown  expanded  by  degrees  into  a  severe  look 
of  triumph,  and  she  retorted  with  emphasis,  "  Take  care  how 
you  judge  others,  then.  I  say  to  you,  Arthur,  for  your  good, 
take  care  how  you  judge  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  685 

Her  emphasis  had  been  derived  from  her  eyes  quite  as 
much  as  from  the  stress  she  laid  upon  her  words.  She  con- 
tinued to  look  at  him  ;  and  if,  when  he  entered  the  house, 
he  had  had  any  latent  hope  of  prevailing  in  the  least  with 
her,  she  now  looked  it  out  of  his  heart. 

'^  Mother,  shall  I  do  nothing  to  assist  you  ?  " 

''  Nothing." 

"  Will  you  intrust  me  with  no  confidence,  no  charge,  no 
explanation  ?  Will  you  take  no  counsel  with  me  ?  Will  you 
n«t  let  me  come  near  you  ?  '* 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  You  separated  yourself  from 
my  affairs.  It  was  not  my  act ;  it  was  yours.  How  can  you 
constantly  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  You  know  that  you 
left  me  to  Flintwinch,  and  that  he  occupies  your  place." 

Glancing  at  Jeremiah,  Clennam  saw  in  his  very  gaiters 
that  his  attention  was  closely  directed  to  them,  though  he 
stood  leaning  against  the  wall  scraping  his  jaw,  and  pre- 
tended to  listen  to  Flora  as  she  held  forth  in  a  most  distract- 
ing manner  on  a  chaos  of  subjects,  in  which  mackerel,  and 
Mr.  F.'s  aunt  in  a  swing,  had  become  entangled  with 
cockchafers  and  the  wine  trade. 

"  A  prisoner  in  a  French  jail,  on  an  accusation  of  mur- 
der," repeated  Mrs.  Clennam,  steadily  going  over  what  her 
son  had  said.  *'  That  is  all  you  know  of  him  from  the  fellow- 
prisoner  ?" 

"  In  substance,  all." 

"  And  was  the  fellow-prisoner  his  accomplice  and  a  mur- 
derer, too?  But,  of  course,  he  gives  a  better  account  of 
himself  than  of  his  friend  ;  it  is  needless  to  ask.  This  will 
supply  the  rest  of  them  here  with  something  new  to  talk 
about.     Casby,  Arthur  tells  me " 

'^  Stay,  mother  !  Stay,  stay  !  "  He  interrupted  her,  hastily, 
for  it  had  not  entered  his  imagination  that  she  would  openly 
proclaim  what  he  had  told  her. 

"  What  now  ? "  she  said,  with  displeasure.    "  What  more  ? " 

"  I  beg  of  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Casby — and  you,  too, 
Mrs.  Finching — for  one  other  moment,  with  my  mother ** 

He  had  laid  his  hand  upon  her  chair,  or  she  would  other- 
wise have  wheeled  it  round  with  the  touch  of  her  foot  upon 
the  ground.  They  were  still  face  to  face.  She  looked  at 
him,  as  he  ran  over  the  possibilities  of  some  result  he  had 
not  intended,  and  could  noj;  foresee,  being  influenced  by 
Cavalletto's  disclosure  becoming  a  matter  of  notoriety,  and 
hurriedly  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  it  had   best  not  be 


686  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

talked  about ;  though  perhaps  he  was  guided  by  no  more 
distinct  reason  than  that  he  had  taken  it  for  granted  that 
his  mother  would  reserve  it  to  herself  and  her  partner. 

^^  What  now  ?  "  she  said  again  impatiently.     *^  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  mean,  mother,  that  you  should  repeat  what  I 
have  communicated.     I  think  you  had  better  not  repeat  it." 

"  Do  you  make  that  a  condition  with  me  ? " 

"  Well  !  yes." 

"  Observe,  then  !  It  is  you  who  make  this  a  secret," 
said  she,  holding  up  her  hand,  ^'  and  not  I.  It  is  you,  Arthur, 
who  bring  here  doubts  and  suspicions  and  entreaties  for  ex- 
planations, and  it  is  you,  Arthur,  who  bring  secrets  here. 
What  is  it  to  me,  do  you  think,  where  the  man  has  been,  or 
what  he  has  been  ?  What  can  it  be  to  me  ?  The  whole 
world  may  know  it,  if  they  care  to  know  it ;  it  is  nothing  to 
me.     Now,  let  me  go.'* 

He  yielded  to  her  imperious,  but  elated  look,  and  turned 
her  chair  back  to  the  place  from  which  he  had  wheeled  it. 
In  doing  so  he  saw  elation  in  the  face  of  Mr.  Flintwinch, 
which  most  assuredly  was  not  inspired  by  Flora.  This  turn- 
ing of  his  intelligence,  and  of  his  whole  attempt  and  design 
against  himself,  did  even  more  than  his  mother's  fixedness 
and  firmness,  to  convince  him  that  his  efforts  with  her  were 
idle.  Nothing  remained  but  the  appeal  to  his  old  friend 
Affery. 

But  even  to  get  the  very  doubtful  and  preliminary  stage 
of  making  the  appeal,  seemed  one  of  the  least  promising  of 
human  undertakings.  She  was  so  completely  under  the 
thrall  of  the  two  clever  ones,  was  so  systematically  kept  in 
sight  by  one  or  other  of  them,  and  was  so  afraid  to  go 
about  the  house  besides,  that  every  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her  alone  appeared  to  be  forestalled.  Over  and  above 
that,  Mistress  Affery,  by  some  means  (it  was  not  very  diffi- 
cult to  guess,  through  the  sharp  arguments  of  her  liege 
lord),  had  acquired  such  a  lively  conviction  of  the  hazard  of 
saying  any  thing  under  any  circumstances,  that  she  had  re- 
mained all  this  time  in  a  corner,  guarding  herself  from  ap- 
proach with  that  symbolical  instrument  of  hers  ;  so  that, 
when  a  word  or  two  had  been  addressed  to  her  by  Flora, 
or  even  by  the  bottle-green  patriarch  himself,  she  had  warded 
off  conversation  with  the  toasting-fork,  like  a  dumb  woman. 

After  several  abortive  attempts  to  get  Affery  to  look  at  him 
while  she  cleared  the  table  and  washed  the  tea-service, 
Arthur  thought  of  an  expedient  which  Flora  might  originate. 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  687 

To  whom  he  therefore  whispered,  **  Could  you  say  you  would 
like  to  go  through  the  house  ?  " 

Now,  poor  Flora,  being  always  in  fluctuating  expectation 
of  the  time  when  Clennam  would  renew  his  boyhood,  and  be 
madly  in  love  with  her  again,  received  the  whisper  with  the 
utmost  delight  ;  not  only  as  rendered  precious  by  its  myste- 
rious character,  but  as  preparing  the  way  for  a  tender  inter- 
view in  which  he  would  declare  the  state  of  his  affections. 
She  immediately  began  to  work  out  the  hint. 

^*Ah  dear  me  the  poor  old  room,"  said  Flora,  glancing 
round,  "looks  just  as  ever  Mrs.  Clennam  I  am  touched  to 
see  except  for  being  smokier  which  was  to  be  expected  with 
time  and  which  we  must  all  expect  and  reconcile  ourselves 
to  being  whether  we  like-  it  or  not  as  I  am  sure  I  have  had  to 
do  myself  if  not  exactly  smokier  dreadfully  stouter  which  is 
the  same  or  worse,  to  think  of  the  days  when  papa  used  to 
bring  me  here  the  least  of  girls  a  perfect  mass  of  chilblains 
to  be  stuck  upon  a  chair  with  my  feet  on  the  rails  and  stare 
at  Arthur — pray  excuse  me — Mr.  Clennam — the  least  of  boys 
in  the  frightfulest  of  frills  and  jackets  ere  yet  Mr.  F.  ap- 
peared a  misty  shadow  on  the  horizon  paying  attentions  like 
the  well-known  specter  of  some  place  in  Germany  beginning 
with  a  B  is  a  moral  lesson  inculcating  that  all  the  paths  in 
life  are  similar  to  the  paths  down  in  the  north  of  England 
where  they  get  the  coals  and  make  the  iron  and  things  grav- 
eled with  ashes." 

Having  paid  the  tribute  of  a  sigh  to  the  instability  of 
human  existence.  Flora  hurried  on  with  her  purpose. 

"  Not  that  at  any  time,"  she  proceeded,  "  its  worst  enemy 
could  have  said  it  was  a  cheerful  house  for  that  it  was  never 
made  to  be  but  always  highly  impressive,  fond  memory  re- 
calls an  occasion  in  youth  ere  yet  the  judgment  was  mature 
when  Arthur — confirmed  habit — Mr.  Clennam — took  me 
down  into  the  unused  kitchen  eminent  for  moldiness  and 
proposed  to  secrete  me  there  for  life  and  feed  me  on  what 
he  could  hide  from  his  meals  when  he  was  not  at  home  for 
the  holidays  and  on  dry  bread  in  disgrace  which  at  that 
halcyon  period  too  frequently  occurred,  would  it  be  incon- 
venient or  asking  too  much  to  beg  to  be  permitted  to  revive 
those  scenes  and  walk  through  the  house  ?  " 

Mrs.  Clennam,  who  responded  with  a  constrained  grace 
to  Mrs.  Finching's  good  nature  in  being  there  at  all,  though, 
her  visit  (before  Arthur's  unexpected  arrival)  was  undoubt- 
edly an  act  of  pure  good  nature,  and  no  self-gratification,  in- 


688  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

timated  that  all  the  house  was  open  to  her.  Flora  rose  and 
looked  to  Arthur  for  his  escort.  "  Certainly,"  said  he,  aloud  ; 
"and  Affery  will  light  us,  I  dare  say." 

Affery  was  excusing  herself  with  "  Don't  ask  nothing  of 
me,  Arthur  !  "  when  Mr.  Flintwinch  stopped  her  with  "  Why 
not  ?  Affery,  what's  the  matter  with  you,  woman  ?  Why 
not,  jade  ?  "  Thus  expostulated  with,  she  came  unwillingly 
out  of  her  corner,  resigned  the  toasting-fork  into  one  of  her 
husband's  hands,  and  took  the  candlestick  he  offered  from 
the  other. 

"  Go  before,  you  fool  !  "  said  Jeremiah.  "  Are  you  going 
up,  or  down,  Mrs.  Finching  ?  " 

Flora  answered,  "  Down." 

"  Then  go  before,  and  down,  you  Affery,"  said  Jeremiah. 
"  And  do  it  properly,  or  Til  come  rolling  dov/n  the  banisters, 
and  tumbling  over  you!  " 

Affery  headed  the  exploring  party;  Jeremiah  closed  it. 
He  had  no  intention  of  leaving  them.  Clennam  looking  back, 
and  seeing  him  following,  three  stairs  behind,  in  the  coolest 
and  most  methodical  manner,  exclaimed  in  a  low  voice,  "  Is 
there  no  getting  rid  of  him  !  "  Flora  re-assured  his  mind,  by 
replying  promptly,  "Why  though  not  exactly  proper  Arthur 
and  a  thing  I  couldn't  think  of  before  a  younger  man  or  a 
stranger  still  I  don't  mind  him  if  you  so  particularly  wish  it 
and  provided  you'll  have  the  goodness  not  to  take  me  too 
tight." 

Wanting  the  heart  to  explain  that  this  was  not  at  all  what 
he  meant,  Arthur  extended  his  supporting  arm  round  Flora's 
figure.  "  Oh  my  goodness  me,"  said  she.  "  You  are  very 
obedient  indeed  really  and  it's  extremely  honorable  and 
gentlemanly  in  you  I  am  sure  but  still  at  the  same  time  if  you 
would  like  to  be  a  little  tighter  than  that  I  shouldn't  con- 
sider it  intruding." 

In  this  preposterous  attitude,  unspeakably  at  variance  with 
his  anxious  mind,  Clennam  descended  to  the  basement  of 
the  house  ;  finding  that  wherever  it  became  darker  than  else- 
where. Flora  became  heavier,  and  that  when  the  house  was 
lightest  she  was  too.  Returning  from  the  dismal  kitchen 
regions,  which  were  as  dreary  as  they  could  be,  Mistress 
Affery  passed  with  the  light  into  his  father's  old  room,  and 
then  into  the  old  dining-room  ;  always  passing  on  before 
like  a  phantom  that  was  not  to  be  overtaken,  and  neither 
turning  nor  answering  when  he  whispered,  "  Affery  !  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  !  " 


LITTLE   DORRIT.  689 

In  the  dining-room,  a  sentimental  desire  came  over  Flora 
to  look  into  the  dragon  closet  which  had  so  often  swallowed 
Arthur  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood — not  improbably  because, 
as  a  very  dark  closet,  it  was  a  likely  place  to  be  heavy  in. 
Arthur,  fast  subsiding  into  despair,  had  opened  it,  when  a 
knock  was  heard  at  the  outer  door. 

Mistress  Affery,  with  a  suppressed  cry,  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head. 

*'  What  !  You  want  another  dose  !  "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch. 
*'  You  shall  have  it,  my  woman,  you  shall  have  a  good  one  ! 
Oh  !     You  shall  have  a  sneezer,  you  shall  have  a  teaser  !  " 

**  In  the  mean  time  is  any  body  going  to  the  door  ?  "  said 
Arthur. 

**  In  the  mean  time,  /  am  going  to  the  door,  sir,"  returned 
the  old  man  :  so  savagely,  as  to  render  it  clear  that  in  a 
choice  of  difficulties  he  felt  he  must  go,  though  he  would 
have  preferred  not  to  go.  "  Stay  here  the  while,  all!  Affery, 
my  woman,  move  an  inch  or  speak  a  word  in  your  foolish- 
ness, and  ril  treble  your  dose  !  " 

The  moment  he  was  gone,  Arthur  released  Mrs.  Finching: 
with  some  difficulty,  by  reason  of  that  lady  misunderstand- 
ing his  intentions,  and  making  her  arrangements  with  a  view 
to  tightening  instead  of  slackening. 

"  Affery,  speak  to  me  now  !  " 

*'  Don't  touch  me,  Arthur!  "  she  cried,  shrinking  from  him. 
"  Don't  come  near  me.  He'll  see  you.  Jeremiah  will.  Don't !  " 

"  He  can't  see  me,"  returned  Arthur,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word,  "  if  I  blow  the  candle  out." 

**  He'll  hear  you,"  cried  Affery. 

"  He  can't  hear  me,"  returned  Arthur,  suiting  the  action 
to  the  word  again,  *'  if  I  draw  you  into  this  black  closet,  and 
speak  here.     Why  do  you  hide  your  face  ?  " 

"Because  lam  afraid  of  seeing  something." 

*^  You  can't  be  afraid  of  seeing  any  thing  in  this  darkness, 
Affery." 

"  Yes,  I  am.     Much  more  than  if  it  was  light." 

*'  Why  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  Because  the  house  is  full  of  mysteries  and  secrets  ; 
because  it's  full  of  whisperings  and  counselings;  because  it's 
full  of  noises.  There  never  was  such  a  house  for  noises.  I 
shall  die  of  'em,  if  Jeremiah  don't  strangle  me  first.  As  I 
expect  he  will." 

'*  I  have  never  heard  any  noises  here,  worth  speaking  of." 

*'  Ah  !     But  you  would,  though,  if  you  lived  in  the  house, 


690  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

and  was  obliged  to  go  about  it  as  I  am/'  said  Affery;  ^'  and 
you'd  feel  that  they  was  so  well  worth  speaking  of  that  you'd 
feel  you  was  nigh  bursting,  through  not  being  allowed  to 
speak  of  'em.     Here's  Jeremiah  !     You'll  get  me  killed." 

"  My  good  Affery,  I  solemnly  declare  to  you  that  I  can 
see  the  light  of  the  open  door  on  the  pavement  of  the  hall, 
and  so  could  you  if  you  would  uncover  your  face  and  look." 

''I  durstn't  do  it,"  said  Affery,  ''  I  durstn't  never,  Arthur. 
I'm  always  blindfolded  when  Jeremiah  an't  a  looking,  and 
sometimes  even  when  he  is." 

''  He  can  not  shut  the  door  without  my  seeing  him,"  said 
Arthur.  *'  You  are  as  safe  with  me  as  if  he  was  fifty  miles 
away." 

(^'  I  wish  he  was  !  "  cried  Affery.) 

*'  Affery,  I  want  to  know  what  is  amiss  here  ;  I  want  some 
light  thrown  on  the  secrets  of  this  house." 

^'  I  tell  you,  Arthur,"  she  interrupted,  "  noises  is  the  se- 
crets, rustlings  and  stealings  about,  tremblings,  treads  over- 
head and  treads  underneath." 

"  But  those  are  not  all  the  secrets." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Affery.  ''  Don't  ask  me  no  more. 
Your  old  sweetheart  an't  far  off,  and  she's  a  blabber." 

His  old  sweetheart,  being  in  fact  so  near  at  hand  that  she 
was  then  reclining  against  him  in  a  flutter,  a  very  substantial 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  here  interposed  to  assure  Mistress 
Affery  with  greater  earnestness  than  directness  of  assevera- 
tion, that  what  she  heard  should  go  no  further,  but  should  be 
kept  inviolate,  '*  if  on  no  other  accoimt  on  Arthur's — sensi- 
ble of  intruding  in  being  too  familiar,  Doyce  and  Clennam's." 

**  I  make  an  imploring  appeal  to  you,  Affery,  to  you,  one 
of  the  few  agreeable  early  remembrances  I  have,  for  my 
mother's  sake,  for  your  husband's  sake,  for  my  own,  for  all 
our  sakes.  I  am  sure  you  can  tell  me  something  connected 
with  the  coming  here  of  this  man,  if  you  will." 

"  Why,  then  I'll  tell  you,  Arthur,"  returned  Affery 

**  Jeremiah's  a-coming  !  " 

"  No,  indeed  he  is  not.  The  door  is  open,  and  he  is 
standing  outside,  talking." 

"  I'll  tell  you  then,"  said  Affery,  after  listening,  "  that  the 
first  time  he  ever  come  he  heard  the  noises  of  his  own  self. 
*  What's  that  ? '  he  said  to  me.  '  I  don't  know  what  it  is,'  I 
says  to  him,  catching  hold  of  him,  ^  but  I  have  heard  it  over 
and  over  again.'  While  I  says  it,  he  stands  a-looking  at  me, 
all  of  a  shake,  he  do." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  691 

"  Has  he  been  here  often  ? " 

"  Only  that  night,  and  the  last  night.*' 

"  What  did  you  see  of  him  on  the  last  night,  after  I  was 
gone  ?  " 

^^  Them  two  clever  ones  had  him  all  alone  to  themselves. 
Jeremiah  come  a-dancing  at  me  sideways,  after  I  had  let  you 
out  (he  always  comes  a-dancing  at  me  sideways  when  he's 
going  to  hurt  me),  and  he  said  to  me,  ^  Now,  Affery,'  he  said, 
*  I  am  a-coming  behind  you,  my  woman,  and  a-going  to  run 
you  up.'  So  he  took  and  squeezed  the  back  of  my  neck  in 
his  hand,  till  it  made  me  open  my  mouth,  and  then  he  pushed 
me  before  him  to  bed,  squeezing  all  the  way.  That's 
what  he  calls  running  me  up,  he  do.  Oh,  he's  a  wicked 
one  !  " 

*'  And  did  you  hear  or  see  no  more,  Affery  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  tell  you  I  was  sent  to  bed,  Arthur  !  Here  he  is  !  " 

**  I  assure  you  he  is  still  at  the  door.  Those  whisperings 
and  counselings,  Affery,  that  you  have  spoken  of.  What  are 
they  ? " 

*'  Hovv^  should  I  know  !  Don't  ask  me  nothing  about  'em. 
Arthur.     Get  away  !  " 

*^  But,  my  dear  Affery  ;  unless  I  can  gain  some  insight 
into  these  hidden  things,  in  spite  of  your  husband  and  in 
spite  of  my  mother,  ruin  will  come  of  it." 

"  Don't  ask  me  nothing,"  repeated  Affery.  "  I  have  been 
in  a  dream  for  ever  so  long.     Go  away,  go  away  !  " 

'^  You  said  that  before,"  returned  Arthur.  '^  You  used 
the  same  expression  that  night,  at  the  door,  when  I  asked 
you  what  was  going  on  here.  What  do  you  mean  by  being 
in  a  dream  ?  " 

"  I  an't  a-going  to  tell  you.  Get  away  !  I  shouldn't  tell 
you,  if  you  was  by  yourself  ;  much  less  with  your  old  sweet- 
heart here." 

It  was  equally  vain  for  Arthur  to  entreat,  and  for  Flora  to 
protest.  Affery,  who  had  been  trembling  and  struggling  the 
whole  time,  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  adjuration,  and  was  bent 
on  forcing  herself  out  of  the  closet. 

*'  I'd  sooner  scream  to  Jeremiah  than  say  another  word  ! 
I'll  call  out  to  him,  Arthur,  if  you  don't  give  over  speaking  to 
me.  Now  here's  the  very  last  word  I'll  say  afore  I  call  to  him. 
— If  ever  you  begin  to  get  the  better  of  them  two  clever  ones 
your  own  self  (you  ought  to  do  it,  as  I  told  you  when  you  first 
come  home,  for  you  haven't  been  a-living  here  long  years,  to 
be  made  afeard  of  your  life  as  I  have),  then  do  you  get  the 


692  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

better  of  'em  afore  my  face  ;  and  then  do  you  say  to  me, 
Affery,  tell  your  dreams  !     Maybe,  then  I'll  tell  'em  !  " 

The  shutting  of  the  door  stopped  Arthur  from  replying. 
They  glided  into  the  places  where  Jeremiah  had  left  them  ; 
and  Clennam,  stepping  forward  as  that  old  gentleman 
returned,  informed  him  that  he  had  accidentally  e^xtinguished 
the  candle.  Mr.  Flintwinch  looked  on  as  he  re-lighted  it 
at  the  lamp  in  the  hall,  and  preserved  a  profound  taciturnity 
respecting  the  person  who  had  been  holding  him  in  conver- 
sation. Perhaps  his  irascibility  demanded  compensation  for 
some  tediousness  that  the  visitor  had  expended  on  him  ; 
however  that  was,  he  took  such  umbrage  at  seeing  his  wife  with 
her  apron  over  her  head,  that  he  charged  at  her,  and  taking 
her  veiled  nose  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  appeared  to 
throw  the  whole  screw-power  of  his  person  into  the  wring  he 
gave  it. 

Flora,  now  permanently  heavy,  did  not  release  Arthur  from 
the  survey  of  the  house,  until  it  had  extended  even  to  his  old 
garret  bedchamber.  His  thoughts  were  otherwise  occupied 
than  with  the  tour  of  inspection  ;  yet  he  took  particular 
notice  at  the  time,  as  he  afterward  had  occasion  to  remember, 
of  the  airlessness  and  closeness  of  the  house  ;  that  they  left 
the  track  of  their  footsteps  in  the  dust  on  the  upper  floors  ; 
and  that  there  was  a  resistance  to  the  opening  of  one  room 
door,  which  occasioned  Affery  to  cry  out  that  somebody  was 
hiding  inside,  and  to  continue  to  believe  so,  though  some- 
body was  sought  and  not  discovered.  When  they  at  last 
returned  to  his  mother's  room,  they  found  her,  shading  her 
face  with  her  muffled  hand,  and  talking  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
patriarch  as  he  stood  before  the  fire,  whose  blue  eyes, 
polished  head,  and  silken  locks,  turning  toward  them  as  they 
came  in,  imparted  an  inestimable  value  and  inexhaustible 
love  of  his  species  to  his  remark  : 

"  So  you  have  been  seeing  the  premises,  seeing  the  prem- 
ises— premises — seeing  the  premises  !  " 

It  was  not  in  itself  a  jewel  of  benevolence  or  wisdom,  yet 
he  made  it  an  exemplar  of  both  that  one  would  have  liked 
to  have  a  copy  of. 


LITTLE  DORRLL  695 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE    EVENING    OF    A    LONG    DAY. 

That  illustrious  man,  and  great  national  ornament,  Mr. 
Merdle,  continued  his  shining  course.  It  began  to  be  widely 
understood  that  one  who  had  done  society  the  admirable 
service  of  making  so  much  money  out  of  it,  could  not  be  suf- 
feredto  remain  a  commoner.  A  baronetcy  was  spoken  of  with 
confidence  ;  a  peerage  was  frequently  mentioned.  Rumor 
had  it  that  Mr.  Merdle  had  set  his  golden  face  against  a 
baronetcy  ;  that  he  had  plainly  intimated  to  Lord  Decimus 
that  a  baronetcy  was  not  enough  for  him  ;  that  he  had  said, 
*' No  :  a  peerage,  or  plain  Merdle."  This  was  reported  to 
have  plunged  Lord  Decimus  as  nigh  to  his  noble  chin  in  a 
slough  of  doubts  as  so  lofty  a  person  could  be  sunk. 
For  the  Barnacles,  as  a  group  of  themselves  in  creation,  had 
an  idea  that  such  distinctions  belonged  to  them;  and  that 
when  a  soldier,  sailor,  or  lawyer,  became  ennobled,  they  let 
him  in,  as  it  were,  by  an  act  of  condescension,  at  the  family 
door,  and  immediately  shut  it  again.  Not  only  (said  rumor) 
had  the  troubled  Decimus  his  own  hereditary  part  in  this 
impression,  but  he  also  knew  of  several  Barnacle  claims 
already  on  the  file,  which  came  into  collision  with  that  of  the 
master  spirit.  Right  or  wrong,  rumor  was  very  busy  ;  and 
Lord  Decimus,  while  he  was,  or  was  supposed  to  be,  in 
stately  excogitation  of  the  difficulty,  lent  her  some  counte- 
nance, by  taking,  on  several  public  occasions,  one  of  those 
elephantine  trots  of  his  through  a  jungle  of  overgrown  sen- 
tences, waving  Mr.  Merdle  about  on  his  trunk  as  gigantic 
enterprise,  the  wealth  of  England,  elasticity,  credit,  capital, 
prosperity,  and  all  manner  of  blessings. 

So  quietly  did  the  mowing  of  the  old  scythe  go  on,  that 
fully  three  months  had  passed  unnoticed  since  the  two  English 
brothers  had  been  laid  in  one  tomb  in  the  strangers'  cemetery 
at  Rome.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparkler  were  established  in  their 
own  house  :  a  little  mansion,  rather  of  the  Tite  Barnacle  class, 
quite  a  triumph  of  inconvenience,  with  a  perpetual  smell  in  it 
of  the  day  before  yesterday's  soup  and  coach-horses,  but  ex- 
tremely dear,  as  being  exactly  in  the  center  of  the  habitable 
globe.  In  this  enviable  abode  (and  envied  it  really  was  by 
many  people),  Mrs.  Sparkler  liad  intended  to  proceed  at  once 
to  the  demolition  of  the  bosom,  when  active  hostilities  had 


694  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

been  suspended  by  the  arrival  of  the  courier  with  his  tidings 
of  death.  Mrs.  Sparkler,  who  was  not  unfeeling,  had  received 
them  with  a  violent  burst  of  grief,  which  had  lasted  twelve 
hours  ;  after  which  she  had  arisen  to  see  about  her  mourn- 
ing, and  to  take  every  precaution  that  could  insure  its  being 
as  becoming  as  Mrs.  Merdle's.  A  gloom  was  then  cast  over 
more  than  one  distinguished  family  (according  to  the  polit- 
est  sources  of  intelligence),  and  the  courier  went  back  again. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sparkler  had  been  dining  alone  with  their 
gloom  cast  over  them,  and  Mrs.  Sparkler  reclined  on  a  draw- 
ing-room sofa.  It  was  a  hot  summer  Sunday  evening.  The 
residence  in  the  center  of  the  habitable  globe,  at  all  times 
stuffed  and  close  as  if  it  had  an  incurable  cold  in  its  head, 
was  that  evening  particularly  stifling.  The  bells  of  the 
churches  had  done  their  worst  in  the  way  of  clanging  among 
the  unmelodious  echoes  of  the  streets,  and  the  lighted  windows 
of  the  churches  had  ceased  to  be  yellow  in  the  gray  dusk, 
and  had  died  out  opaque  black.  Mrs.  Sparkler,  lying  on  her 
sofa  looking  through  an  open  window  at  the  opposite  side  of 
a  narrow  street,  over  boxes  of  mignonnette  and  flowers,  was 
tired  of  the  view.  Mrs.  Sparkler,  looking  at  another  window 
where  her  husband  stood  in  the  balcony,  was  tired  of  that 
view.  Mrs.  Sparkler,  looking  at  herself  in  her  mourning,  was 
even  tired  of  that  view:  though,  naturally,  not  so  tired  of 
that  as  of  the  other  two. 

"  It  is  like  lying  in  a  well,*'  said  Mrs.  Sparkler,  changing 
her  position  fretfully.  *'  Dear  me,  Edmund,  if  you  have 
any  thing  to  say,  why  don't  you  say  it  ? " 

Mr.  Sparkler  might  have  replied  with  ingenuousness, 
*'  My  life,  I  have  nothing  to  say."  But,  as  the  repartee  did 
not  occur  to  him,  he  contented  himself  with  coming  in  from 
the  balcony  and  standing  at  the  side  of  his  wife's  couch. 

"  Good  gracious,  Edmund  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sparkler,  more 
fretfully  still,  "  you  are  absolutely  putting  mignonnette  up 
your  nose  !     Pray  don't !  " 

Mr.  Sparkler,  in  absence  of  mind — perhaps  in  a  more 
literal  absence  of  mind  than  is  usually  understood  by  the 
phrase — had  smelled  so  hard  at  a  sprig  in  his  hand  as  to  be 
on  the  ve;'ge  of  the  offense  in  question.  He  smiled,  said,  "  I 
ask  your  pardon,  my  dear,"  and  threw  it  out  of  window. 

**  You  make  my  head  ache  by  remaining  in  that  position, 
Edmund,"  said  Mrs.  Sparkler,  raising  her  eyes  to  him  after 
another  minute  ;  ^^  you  look  so  aggravatingly  large  by  this 
light.     Do  sit  dov/n." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  695 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler.  And  took  a 
chair  on  the  same  spot. 

**  If  I  didn't  know  that  the  longest  day  was  past,"  said 
Fanny,  yawning  in  a  dreary  manner,  ''  I  should  have  felt 
certain  this  was  the  longest  day.  I  never  did  experience 
such  a  day." 

**  Is  this  your  fan,  my  love  ? "  asked  Mr.  Sparkler,  pick- 
ing up  one,  and  presenting  it. 

"  Edmund,"  returned  his  wife,  more  wearily  yet,  "  don't 
ask  weak  questions,  I  entreat  you  not.  Whose  can  it  be  but 
mine  ? " 

'*  Yes,  I  thought  it  was  yours,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler. 

"  Then  you  shouldn't  ask,"  retorted  Fanny.  After  a  little 
while  she  turned  on  her  sofa  and  exclaimed,  ^^  Dear  me,  dear 
me,  there  never  was  such  a  long  day  as  this  !  "  After  an- 
other little  while,  she  got  up  slowly,  walked  about  and  came 
back  again. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  flashing  with  an  original 
conception,  '^  I  think  you  must  have  got  the  fidgets." 

"  Oh  !     Fidgets  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Sparkler.     ''  Don't." 

"  My  adorable  girl,"  urged  Mr.  Sparkler,  "  try  your  aro- 
matic vinegar.  I  have  often  seen  my  mother  try  it,  and  it 
seemingly  refreshed  her.  And  she  is,  I  believe  you  are 
aware,  a  remarkably  fine  woman,  with  no  non " 

"  Good  gracious  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny,  starting  up  again. 
"  It's  beyond  all  patience  !  This  is  the  most  wearisome  day 
that  ever  did  dawn  upon  the  world,  I  am  certain." 

Mr.  Sparkler  looked  meekly  after  her  as  she  lounged 
about  the  room,  and  he  appeared  to  be  a  little  frightened. 
When  she  had  tossed  a  few  trifles  about,  and  had  looked 
down  into  the  darkening  street  out  of  all  the  three  windows, 
she  returned  to  her  sofa,  and  threw  herself  among  its  pillows. 

"  Now,  Edmund,  come  here  !  Come  a  little  nearer,  be- 
cause I  want  to  be  able  to  touch  you  with  my  fan,  that  I 
may  impress  you  very  much  with  what  I  am  going  to  say. 
That  will  do.    Quite  close  enough.    Oh,  you  do  look  so  big  !  " 

Mr.  Sparkler  apologized  for  the  circumstance,  pleaded 
that  he  couldn't  help  it,  and  said  that  ^'  our  fellows,"  without 
more  particularly  indicating  whose  fellows,  used  to  call  him 
by  the  name  of  Quinbus  Flestrin,  Junior,  or  the  Young  Man 
Mountain. 

"  You  ought  to  have  told  me  so  before,"  Fanny  com- 
plained. 

^' My  dear,"  returned   Mr.   Sparkler,   rather  gratified,  "I 


696  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

didn't  know  it  would  interest  you,  or  I  would  have  made  a 
point  of  telling  you." 

''  There  !  For  goodness'  sake,  don't  talk,"  said  Fanny  ; 
''  I  want  to  talk,  myself.  Edmund,  we  must  not  be  alone 
any  more.  I  must  take  such  precautions  as  will  prevent  my 
being  ever  again  reduced  to  the  state  of  dreadful  depression 
in  which  I  am  this  evening." 

^' My  dear,"  answered  Mr.  Sparkler:  '^ being  as  you  are 
well  known  to  be,  a  remarkably  fine  woman,  with  no — " 

*'  Oh,  good  GRACIOUS  !  "  cried  Fanny. 

Mr.  Sparkler  was  so  discomposed  by  the  energy  of  this 
exclamation,  accompanied  with  a  flouncing  up  from  the  sofa 
and  flouncing  down  again,  that  a  minute  or  two  elapsed  be- 
fore he  felt  himself  equal  to  saying  in  explanation  : 

^'  1  mean,  my  dear,  that  every  body  knows  you  are  calcu- 
lated to  shine  in  society." 

''  Calculated  to  shine  in  society,"  retorted  Fanny  with 
great  irritability  ;  ^' yes,  indeed  !  And  then  what  happens? 
I  no  sooner  recover,  in  a  visiting  point  of  view,  the  shock  of 
poor  dear  papa's  death,  and  my  poor  uncle's — though  I  do 
not  disguise  from  myself  that  the  last  was  a  happy  release, 
for,  if  you  are  not  presentable,  you  had  much  better  die — " 

*'  You  are  not  referring  to  me,  my  love,  I  hope  ? "  Mr. 
Sparkler  humbly  interrupted. 

''  Edmund,  Edmund,  you  would  wear  out  a  saint.  Am  I 
not  expressly  speaking  of  my  poor  uncle  ?" 

''  You  looked  with  so  much  expression  at  myself,  my  dear 
girl,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  ''  that  I  felt  a  little  uncomfortable. 
Thank  you,  my  love." 

*'  Now  you  have  put  me  out,"  observed  Fanny,  with  a  re- 
signed toss  of  her  fan,  *'  and  I  had  better  go  to  bed." 

"  Don't  do  that,  my  love,"  urged  Mr.  Sparkler.  '^  Take 
time." 

Fanny  took  a  good  deal  of  time  ;  lying  back  with  her 
eyes  shut,  and  her  eyebrows  raised  with  a  hopeless  expres- 
sion, as  if  she  had  utterly  given  up  all  terrestrial  affairs. 
At  length,  without  the  slightest  notice,  she  opened  her  eyes 
again,  and  recommenced  in  a  short,  sharp  manner  : 

''What  happens  then,  I  ask?  What  happens?  Why,  I 
find  myself  at  the  very  period  when  I  might  shine  most  in 
society,  and  should  most  like  for  very  momentous  reasons  to 
shine  in  society — 1  find  myself  in  a  situation  which  to  a  cer- 
tain extent  disqualifies  me  for  going  into  society.  It's  too 
bad,  really  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  697 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  "  I  don't  think  it  need  keep 
you  at  home." 

"  Edmund,  you  ridiculous  creature,"  returned  Fanny, 
with  great  indignation  ;  ''  do  you  suppose  that  a  woman  in 
the  bloom  of  youth,  and  not  wholly  devoid  of  personal 
attractions,  can  put  herself,  at  such  a  time,  in  competition 
as  to  figure  with  a  woman  in  every  other  way  her  inferior  ? 
If  you  do  suppose  such  a  thing,  your  folly  is  boundless." 

Mr.  Sparkler  submitted  that  he  had  thought  '*  it  might  be 
got  over." 

"  Got  over  ! "  repeated  Fanny,  with  immeasurable  scorn, 

"  For  a  time,"  Mr.  Sparkler  submitted. 

Honoring  the  last  feeble  suggestion  with  no  notice,  Mrs. 
Sparkler  declared  with  bitterness  that  it  really  was  too  bad, 
and  that  positively  it  was  enough  to  make  one  wish  one  was 
dead  ! 

**  However,"  she  said,  when  she  had  in  some  measure  re- 
covered from  her  sense  of  personal  ill-usage  ;  *'  provoking  as 
it  is,  and  cruel  as  it  seems,  I  suppose  it  must  be  submitted 
to." 

^'  Especially  as  it  was  to  be  expected,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler. 

"  Edmund,"  returned  his  wife,  ^'  if  you  have  nothing  more 
becoming  to  do  than  to  attempt  to  insult  the  woman  who  has 
honored  you  with  her  hand,  when  she  finds  herself  in  adver- 
sity, I  think  jw/  had  better  go  to  bed  !  " 

Mr.  Sparkler  was  much  afflicted  by  the  charge,  and  offered 
a  most  tender  and  earnest  apology.  His  apology  was  ac- 
cepted ;  but  Mrs.  Sparkler  requested  him  to  go  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  sofa  and  sit  in  the  window-curtain,  to  tone 
himself  down. 

*' Now,  Edmund,"  she  said,  stretching  out  her  fan,  and 
touching  him  with  it  at  arm's-length,  *^  what  I  was  going  to 
say  to  you  when  you  began  as  usual  to  prose  and  worry,  is 
that  I  shall  guard  against  our  being  alone  anymore,  and  that 
when  circumstances  prevent  my  going  out  to  my  own  satisfac- 
tion, I  must  arrange  to  have  some  people  or  other  always 
here  ;  for  I  really. can  not,  and  will  not,  have  another  such 
day  as  this  has  been." 

Mr.  Sparkler's  sentiments  as  to  the  plan  were,  in  brief, 
that  it  had  no  nonsense  about  it.  He  added,  "  And  besides, 
you  know  it's  likely  that  you'll  soon  have  your  sister " 

"  Dearest  Amy,  yes  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Sparkler,  with  a  sigh  of 
affection.  "  Darling  little  thing  !  Not,  however,  that  Amy 
vvould  do  here  alone," 


693  LITTLE  DORRrr. 

Mr.  Sparkler  was  going  to  say  "  No  ?  '*  interrogatively. 
But,  he  saw  his  danger  and  said  it  assentingly.  **  No,  oh 
dear  no  ;  she  wouldn't  do  here  alone." 

"  No,  Edmund.  For  not  only  are  the  virtues  of  the  pre- 
cious child  of  that  still  character  that  they  require  a  contrast 
— require  life  and  movement  around  them  to  bring  them  out 
in  their  right  colors  and  make  one  love  them  of  all  things  ;' 
but  she  will  require  to  be  roused,  on  more  accounts  than 
one." 

"  That's  it,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler.     **  Roused." 

"Pray  don't,  Edmund  !  Your  habit  of  interrupting  with- 
out having  the  least  thing  in  the  world  to  say,  distracts  one. 
You  must  be  broken  of  it.  Speaking  of  Amy  ; — my  poor 
little  pet  was  devotedly  attached  to  poor  papa,  and  no  doubt 
will  have  lamented  his  loss  exceedingly,  and  grieved  very 
much.  I  have  done  so  myself.  I  have  felt  it  dreadfully. 
But  Amy  will  no  doubt  have  felt  it  even  more,  from  having 
been  on  the  spot  the  whole  time,  and  having  been  with  poor 
dear  papa  at  the  last :  which  I  unhappily  was  not." 

Here  Fanny  stopped  to  weep,  and  to  say,  "  Dear,  dear, 
beloved  papa  !  How  truly  gentlemanly  he  was  !  What  a 
contrast  to  poor  uncle  !  " 

"  From  the  effects  of  that  trying  time,"  she  pursued,  "my 
good  little  mouse  will  have  to  be  roused.  Also,  from  the 
effects  of  this  long  attendance  upon  Edward  in  his  illness  ; 
an  attendance  which  is  not  yet  over,  which  may  even  go  on 
for  some  time  longer,  and  which  in  the  meanwhile  unsettles 
us  all,  by  keeping  poor  dear  papa's  affairs  from  being  wound 
up.  Fortunately,  however,  the  papers  with  his  agents  here 
being  all  sealed  up  and  locked  up,  as  he  left  them  when  he 
providentially  came  to  England,  the  affairs  are  in  that  state 
of  order  that  they  can  wait  untHl  my  brother  Edward  recovers 
his  health  in  Sicily,  sufficiently  to  come  over,  and  admin- 
ister, or  execute,  or  whatever  it  may  be  that  will  have  to  be 
done." 

"  He  couldn't  have  a  better  nurse  to  bring  him  round," 
Mr.  Sparkler  made  bold  to  opine. 

"  For  a  wonder,  I  can  agree  with  you,"  returned  his  wife, 
languidly  turning  her  eyelids  a  little  in  his  direction  (she 
held  forth,  in  general,  as  if  to  the  drawing-room  furniture), 
"  and  can  adopt  your  words.  He  couldn't  have  a  better 
nurse  to  bring  him  round.  There  are  times  when  my  dear 
child  is  a  little  wearing,  to  an  active  mind  ;  but  as  a  nurse, 
she  is  perfect.     Best  of  Amys  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  699 

Mr.  Sparkler,  growing  rash  on  his  late  success,  observed 
that  Edward  had  had,  biggodd,  a  long  bout  of  it,  my  dear 
girl. 

*'If  bout,  Edmund,"  returned  Mrs.  Sparkler,  "is  the  slang 
term  for  indisposition,  he  has.  If  it  is  not,  I  am  unable  to 
give  an  opinion  on  the  barbarous  language  you  address  to 
Edward's  sister.  That  he  contracted  malaria  fever  some- 
where, either  by  traveling  day  and  night  to  Rome,  where, 
after  all,  he  arrived  too  late  to  see  poor  dear  papa  before  his 
death — or  under  some  other  unwholesome  circumstances — 
is  indubitable,  if  that  is  what  you  mean.  Likewise,  that  his 
extremely  careless  life  has  made  him  a  very  bad  subject  for 
it  indeed.'* 

Mr.  Sparkler  considered  it  a  parallel  case  to  that  of  some 
of  our  fellows  in  the  West  Indies  with  yellow  jack.  Mrs. 
Sparkler  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  refused  to  have  any  con- 
sciousness of  our  fellows,  of  the  West  Indies,  or  of  yellow 
jack. 

"  So  Amy,"  she  pursued,  when  she  re-opened  her  eyelids, 
"  will  require  to  be  roused  from  the  effects  of  many  tedious 
and  anxious  weeks.  And  lastly,  she  will  require  to  be  roused 
from  a  low  tendency  which  I  know  very  well  to  be  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart.  Don't  ask  me  what  it  is,  Edmund,  be- 
cause I  must  decline  to  tell  you." 

"  I  am  not  going  to,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler. 

"  I  shall  thus  have  much  improvement  to  effect  in  my 
sweet  child,"  Mrs.  Sparkler  continued,  "  and  can  not  have 
her  near  me  too  soon.  Amiable  and  dear  little  Twoshoes  ! 
As  to  the  settlement  of  poor  papa's  affairs,  my  interest  in 
that  is  not  very  selfish.  Papa  behaved  very  generously  to 
me  when  I  was  married,  and  I  have  little  or  nothing  to  ex- 
pect. Provided  he  has  made  no  will  that  can  come  into 
force,  leaving  a  legacy  to  Mrs.  General,  I  am  contented. 
Dear  papa,  dear  papa  !  " 

She  wept  again,  but  Mrs.  General  was  the  best  of  restora- 
tives. The  name  soon  stimulated  her  to  dry  her  eyes  and  say  : 

"  It  is  a  highly  encouraging  circumstance  in  Edward's  ill- 
ness, I  am  thankful  to  think,  and  gives  one  the  greatest  con- 
fidence in  his  sense  not  i)eing  impaired,  or  his  proper  spirit 
weakened — down  to  the  time  of  poor  dear  papa's  death  at 
all  events — that  he  paid  off  Mrs.  General  instantly,  and  sent 
her  out  of  the  house.  I  applaud  him  for  it.  I  could  forgive 
him  a  great  deal,  for  doing,  with  such  promptitude,  so 
exactly  what  I  would  have  done  myself  !  " 


700  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mrs.  Sparkler  was  in  the  full  glow  of  her  gratification, 
when  a  double  knock  was  heard  at  the  door.  A  very  odd 
knock.  Low,  as  if  to  avoid  making  a  noise  and  attracting 
attention.  Long,  as  if  the  person  knocking  were  pre-occu- 
pied  in  mind,  and  forgot  to  leave  off. 

''  Halloa  !  "    said  Mr.  Sparkler.     *'  Who^s  this  !  " 

"  Not  Amy  and  Edward,  without  notice  and  without  a 
carriage  !  "    said  Mrs.  Sparkler.     *^  Look  out.*' 

The  room  was  dark,  but  the  street  was  lighter,  because  of 
its  lamps.  Mr.  Sparkler's  head  peeping  over  the  balcony 
looked  so  very  bulky  and  heavy,  that  it  seemed  on  the  point 
of   overbalancing  him  and  flattening  the  unknown  below. 

"It's  one  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Sparkler,  *'  I  can't  see  who — 
stop  though  !  " 

On  this  second  thought  he  went  out  into  the  balcony  again 
and  had  another  look.  He  came  back  as  the  door  was 
opened,  and  announced  that  he  believed  he  had  identified 
*'  his  governor's  tile."  He  was  not  mistaken,  for  his  gover- 
nor, with  his  tile  in  his  hand,  v/as  introduced  immediately 
afterward. 

"  Candles  !  "  said  Mrs.  Sparkler,  with  a  word  of  excuse 
for  the  darkness. 

"  It's  light  enough  for  me,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

When  the  candles  were  brought  in,  Mr.  Merdle  was  dis- 
covered standing  behind  the  door,  picking  his  lips.  "  I 
thought  I'd  give  you  a  call,"  he  said.  "  I  am  rather  particu- 
larly occupied  just  now  ;  and,  as  I  happened  to  be  out  for  a 
stroll,  I  thought  I'd  give  you  a  call." 

As  he  was  in  dinner  dress,  Fanny  asked  him  where  he 
had  been  dining  ? 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  '*  I  haven't  been  dining  any- 
where, particularly." 

"  Of  course  you  have  dined  ?  "  said  Fanny. 

''  Why— no,  I  haven't  exactly  dined,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

He  had  passed  his  hand  over  his  yellow  forehead,  and 
considered,  as  if  he  were  not  sure  about  it.  Something  to 
eat  was  proposed.  "  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Merdle,  *'  I 
don't  feel  inclined  for  it.  I  was  to  have  dined  out  along 
with  Mrs.  Merdle.  But  as  I  didn't  feel  inclined  for  dinner, 
I  let  Mrs.  Merdle  go  by  herself  just  as  we  were  getting  into 
the  carriage,  and  thought  I'd  take  a  stroll  instead." 

Would  he  have  tea  or  coffee  ?  '^  No,  thank  you,"  said 
Mr.  Merdle.  "  I  looked  in  at  the  club,  and  got  a  bottle  of 
wine." 


LITTLE  DGRRrr.  701 

At  this  period  of  his  visit,  Mr.  Merdle  took  the  chair 
which  Edmund  Sparkler  had  offered  him,  and  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  pushing  slowly  about  before  him,  like  a  dull 
man  with  a  pair  of  skates  on  for  the  first  time,  who  could 
not  make  up  his  mind  to  start.  He  now  put  his  hat  upon 
another  chair  beside  him,  and,  looking  down  into  it  as  if  it 
were  twenty  feet  deep,  said  again  :  ^'  You  see  I  thought  I'd 
give  you  a  call.'* 

'*  Flattering  to  us,"  said  Fanny,  ''  for  you  are  not  a  calling 
man." 

"  N — no,"  returned  Mr.  Merdle,  who  was  by  this  time 
taking  himself  into  custody  under  both  coat-sleeves.  "  No, 
I  am  not  a  calling  man." 

''  You  have  too  much  to  do  for  that,"  said  Fanny.  "  Hav- 
ing so  much  to  do,  Mr.  Merdle,  loss  of  appetite  is  a  serious 
thing  with  you,  and  you  must  have  it  seen  to.  You  must 
not  be  ill." 

'^  Oh  !  I  am  very  well,"  replied  Mr.  Merdle,  after  deliber- 
ating about  it.  *^  I  am  as  well  as  I  usually  am.  I  am  well 
enough.     I  am  as  well  as  I  want  to  be." 

The  master-mind  of  the  age,  true  to  its  characteristic  of 
being  at  all  times  a  mind  that  had  as  little  as  possible  to 
say  for  itself,  and  great  difficulty  in  saying  it,  became  mute 
again.  Mrs.  Sparkler  began  to  w^onder  how  long  the  master- 
mind meant  to  stay. 

^'  I  was  speaking  of  poor  papa  when  you  came  in,  sir." 

"  Ay  !     Quite  a  coincidence,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

Fanny  did  not  see  that;  but  felt  it  incumbent  on  her  to 
continue  talking.  ''  I  was  saying,"  she  pursued,  **  that  my 
brother's  illness  has  occasioned  a  delay  in  examining  and 
arranging  papa's  property." 

**  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Merdle;  **  yes.  There  has  been  a 
delay." 

*^  Not  that  it  is  of  consequence,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Not,"  assented  Mr.  Merdle,  after  having  examined  the 
cornice  of  all  that  part  of  the  room  which  was  within  his 
range  ;  "  not  that  it  is  of  any  consequence." 

*'  My  only  anxiety  is,"  said  Fanny,  "  that  Mrs.  General 
should  not  get  any  thing." 

'*  She  won't  get  any  thing,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 

Fanny  was  delighted  to  hear  him  express  the  opinion. 
Mr.  Merdle,  after  taking  another  gaze  into  the  depth  of 
his  hat,  as  if  he  thought  he  saw  something  at  the  bottom, 
rubbed  his  hair  and  slowly  appended  to  his  last  remark  the 


702  LIT!  LE  DORRIT. 

confirmatory  words,  ^'  Oh  dear  no.  No.  Not  she.  Not 
likely." 

As  the  topic  seemed  exhausted,  and  Mr.  Merdle  too, 
Fanny  inquired  if  he  were  going  to  take  up  Mrs.  Merdle  and 
the  carriage,  in  his  way  home? 

^'  No,"  he  answered  ;  ^'  1  shall  go  by  the  shortest  way,  and 

leave  Mrs.    Merdle   to "   here  he  looked   all    over    the 

palms  of  both  his  hands  as  if  he  were  telling  his  own  fortune 

'^  to  take  care  of  herself.     I  dare  say   she'll  manage  to 

do  it." 

*^  Probably,"  said  Fanny. 

There  was  then  a  long  silence  ;  during  which,  Mrs. 
Sparkler,  lying  back  on  her  sofa  again,  shut  her  eyes  and 
raised  her  eyebrows  in  her  former  retirement  from  mundane 
affairs. 

"  But,  however,"  said  Mr.  Merdle.  ^^  I  am  equally  detain- 
ing you  and  myself.  I  thought  I'd  give  you  a  call,  you 
know." 

**  Charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Fanny. 

"  So  I  am  off,"  added  Mr.  Merdle,  getting  up.  "  Could 
you  lend  me  a  penknife  ?  " 

It  was  an  odd  thing,  Fanny  smilingly  observed,  for  her 
who  could  seldom  prevail  upon  herself  even  to  write  a  letter, 
to  lend  to  a  man  of  such  vast  business  as  Mr.  Merdle.  *'  Isn't 
it  ?  "  Mr.  Merdle  acquiesced  ;  ''  but  I  want  one  ;  and  I 
know  you  have  got  several  little  wedding  keepsakes  about, 
with  scissors  and  tweezers  and  such  things  in  them.  You 
shall  have  it  back  to-morrow." 

"Edmund,"  said  Mrs.  Sparkler,  "  open  (now,  very  care- 
fully, 1  beg  and  beseech,  for  you  are  so  very  awkward)  the 
mother  of  pearl  box  on  my  little  table  there,  and  give  Mr. 
Merdle  the  mother  of  pearl  penknife." 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Merdle  ;  "  but  if  you  have  got  one 
with  a  darker  handle,  I  think  I  should  prefer  one  with  a 
darker  handle." 

"  Tortoise-shell  ?" 

^^  Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Merdle  ;  "  yes.  I  think  I  should 
prefer  tortoise-shell." 

Edmund  accordingly  received  instructions  to  open  the 
tortoise-shell  box,  and  gave  Mr.  Merdle  the  tortoise-shell 
knife.  On  his  doing  so,  his  wife  said  to  the  master-spirit 
graciously  : 

*'  I  will  forgive  you,  if  you  ink  it." 

"  I'll  undertake  not  to  ink  it,"  said  Mr.  Merdle. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  703 

The  illustrious  visitor  then  put  out  his  coat-cuff,  and  for  a 
moment  entombed  Mrs.  Sparkler's  hand  :  wrist,  bracelet,  and 
all.  Where  his  own  hand  shrunk  to,  was  not  made  manifest, 
but  it  was  as  remote  from  Mrs.  Sparkler's  sense  of  touch  as 
if  he  had  been  a  highly  meritorious  Chelsea  veteran  or  Green- 
wich pensioner. 

Thoroughly  convinced,  as  he  went  out  of  the  room,  that 
it  was  the  longest  day  that  ever  did  come  to  an  end  at  last, 
and  that  there  never  was  a  woman,  not  wholly  devoid  of  per- 
sonal attractions,  so  worn  out  by  idiotic  and  by  lumpish  peo- 
ple, Fanny  passed  into  the  balcony  for  a  breath  of  air. 
Waters  of  vexation  filled  her  eyes  ;  and  they  had  the  effect 
of  making  the  famous  Mr.  Merdle,  in  going  down  the  street, 
appear  to  leap,  and  waltz,  and  gyrate,  as  if  he  were  possessed 
by  several  devils. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    CHIEF    BUTLER    RESIGNS   THE    SEALS   OF  OFFICE. 

• 

The  dinner-party  was  at  the  great  Physician's.  Bar  was 
there,  and  in  full  force.  Ferdinand  Barnacle  was  there,  and 
in  his  most  engaging  state.  Few  ways  of  life  w^ere  hidden 
from  Physician,  and  he  was  oftener  in  its  darkest  places  than 
even  Bishop.  There  were  brilliant  ladies  about  London  who 
perfectly  doted  on  him,  my  dear,  as  the  most  charming  creat- 
ure and  the  most  delightful  person,  who  would  have  been 
shocked  to  find  themselves  so  close  to  him  if  they  could  have 
known  on  what  sights  those  thoughtful  eyes  of  his  had  rested 
within  an  hour  or  two,  and  near  to  whose  beds,  and  under 
what  roofs,  his  composed  figure  had  stood.  But  Physician 
was  a  composed  man,  who  performed  neither  on  his  own 
trumpet,  nor  on  the  trumpets  of  other  people.  Many  won- 
derful things  did  he  see  and  hear,  and  much  irreconcilable 
moral  contradiction  did  he  pass  his  life  among  ;  yet  his 
equality  of  compassion  was  no  more  disturbed  than  the 
Divine  Master's  of  all  healing  was.  He  went,  like  the  rain, 
among  the  just  and  unjust,  doing  all  the  good  he  could,  and 
neither  proclaiming  it  in  the  synagogues  nor  at  the  corners 
of  streets. 

As  no  man  of  large  experience  of  humanity,  however 
quietly  carried  it  may  be,  can  fail  to  be  invested  with  an 
interest  peculiar  to  the  possession  of  such  knowledge,  Physi- 


704  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

cian  was  an  attractive  man.  Even  the  daintier  gentlemen 
and  ladies  who  had  no  idea  of  his  secret,  and  who  would  be 
startled  out  of  more  wits  than  they  had,  by  the  monstrous 
impropriety  of  his  proposing  to  them  *^  Come  and  see  what  I 
see  !  "  confessed  his  attraction.  Where  he  was,  something 
real  was.  And  half  a  grain  of  reality,  like  the  smallest  por- 
tion of  some  other  scarce  natural  productions,  will  flavor  an 
enormous  quantity  of  diluent. 

It  came  to  pass,  therefore,  that  Physician's  little  dinners 
always  presented  people  in  their  least  conventional  lights. 
The  guests  said  to  themselves,  whether  they  were  conscious 
of  it  or  no,  '^  Here  is  a  man  who  really  has  an  acquaintance 
with  us  as  we  are,  who  is  admitted  to  some  of  us  every  day 
with  our  wigs  and  paint  off,  who  hears  the  wanderings  of  our 
minds,  and  sees  the  undisguised  expression  of  our  faces, 
when  both  are  past  our  control  ;  we  may  as  well  make  an 
approach  to  reality  with  him,  for  the  man  has  got  the  better 
of  us,  and  is  too  strong  for  us."  Therefore,  Physician's  guests 
came  out  so  surprisingly  at  his  round  table  that  they  were 
almost  natural. 

Bar's  knowledge  of  that  agglomeration  of  jurymen  which 
is  called  humanity,  is  a.s  sharp  as  a  razor  ;  yet  a  razor  is  not 
a  generally  convenient  instrument,  and  Physician's  4)lain 
bright  scalpel,  though  far  less  keen,  was  adaptable  to  far 
wider  purposes.  Bar  knew  all  about  the  gullibility  and 
knavery  of  people  ;  but  Physician  could  have  given  him  a 
better  insight  into  their  tendernesses  and  affections,  in  one 
week  of  his  rounds,  than  Westminster  Hall  and  all  the  cir- 
cuits put  together,  in  threescore  years  and  ten.  Bar  always 
had  a  suspicion  of  this,  and  perhaps  was  glad  to  encourage  it 
(for  if  the  world  were  really  a  great  law  court,  one  would 
think  that  the  last  day  of  term  could  not  too  soon  arrive)  ; 
and  so  he  liked  and  respected  Physician  quite  as  much  as 
any  other  kind  of  man  did. 

Mr.  Merdle's  default  left  a  Banquo's  chair  at  the  table  ;  but 
if  he  had  been  there  he  would  have  merely  made  the  differ- 
ence of  Banquo  in  it  and  consequently  he  was  no  loss.  Bar, 
who  picked  up  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  about  Westminster 
Hall,  much  as  a  raven  would  have  done  if  he  had  passed  as 
much  of  his  time  there,  had  been  picking  up  a  great  many 
straws  lately  and  tossing  them  about,  to  try  which  way  the 
Merdle  wind  blew.  He  now  had  a  little  talk  on  the  subject 
with  Mrs.  Merdle  herself  ;  sliding  up  to  that  lady,  of  course, 
with  his  double  eye-glass  and  his  jury  droop. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  705 

"  A  certain  bird,"  said  Bar  ;  and  he  looked  as  if  it  could 
have  been  no  other  bird  than  a  magpie  ;  ''  has  been  whisper- 
ing among  us  lawyers  lately,  that  there  is  to  be  an  addition  to 
the  titled  personages  of  this  realm." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Merdle. 

'*  Yes,"  said  Bar.  ^^  Has  not  the  bird  been  whispering  in 
very  different  ears  than  ours — in  lovely  ears  ?  "  He  looked 
expressively  at  Mrs.  Merdle's  nearest  ear-ring. 

'^  Do  you  mean  mine  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Merdle. 

^'  When  I  say  lovely,"  said  Bar,  ^'  I  always  mean  you." 

'*  You  never  mean  any  thing,  I  think,"  returned  Mrs.  Mer- 
dle (not  displeased). 

"  Oh,  cruelly  unjust  1  "  said  Bar.     "  But  the  bird." 

"  I  am  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  hear  news,"  observed 
Mrs.  Merdle,  carelessly  arranging  her  stronghold.  **  Who  is 
it?" 

**  What  an  admirable  witness  you  would  make  !  "  said  Bar. 
*'  No  jury  (unless  we  could  empanel  one  of  blind  men)  could 
resist  you,  if  you  were  ever  so  bad  a  one  ;  but  you  could  be 
such  a  good  one  !  " 

"  Why,  you  ridiculous  man  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Merdle, 
laughing. 

Bar-,  waved  his  double  eye-glass  three  or  four  times  be- 
tween himself  and  the  bosom,  as  a  rallying  answer,  and 
inquired  in  his  most  insinuating  accents  : 

"  What  am  I  to  call  the  most  elegant,  accomplished,  and 
charming  of  women,  a  few  weeks,  or  it  may  be  a  few  days 
hence  ?" 

^'  Didn't  your  bird  tell  you  what  to  call  her  ?  "  answered 
Mrs.  Merdle.  "  Do  ask  it  to-morrow,  and  tell  me  the  next 
time  you  see  me  what  it  says." 

This  led  to  further  passages  of  similar  pleasantry  between 
the  two  ;  but  Bar,  with  all  his  sharpness,  got  nothing  out  of 
them.  Physician,  on  the  other  hand,  taking  Mrs.  Merdle 
down  to  her  carriage  and  attending  on  her  as  she  put  on  her 
cloak,  inquired  into  the  symptoms  with  his  usual  calm  direc- 
tions. 

'*  May  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  is  this  true  about  Merdle  ?  " 

**  My  dear  doctor,"  she  returned, '^  you  ask  me  the  very 
question  that  I  was  half  disposed  to  ask  you." 

''  To  ask  me  !  Why  me  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  I  think  Mr.  Merdle  reposes  greater 
confidence  in  you  than  in  any  one." 

"  On  the  contrary,  he  tells  me  absolutely  nothing,  even  pro- 
fessionally.    You  have  heard  the  talk,  of  course  r  " 


7o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Of  course  I  have.  But  you  know  what  Mr.  Merdle  is ; 
you  know  how  taciturn  and  reserved  he  is.  I  assure  you  I 
have  no  idea  what  foundation  for  it  there  may  be.  I  should 
like  it  to  be  true;  why  should  I  deny  that  to  you  !  You 
would  know  better,  if  I  did  !  " 

^'  Just  so,"  said  Physician. 

"  But  whether  it  is  all  true,  or  partly  true,  or  entirely  false, 
I  am  wholly  unable  to  say.  It  is  a  most  provoking  situation, 
a  most  absurd  situation  ;  but  you  know  Mr.  Merdle,  and  are 
not  surprised." 

Physician  was  not  surprised,  handed  her  into  her  carriage, 
and  bade  her  good-night.  He  stood  for  a  moment  at  his 
own  hall  door,  looking  sedately  at  the  elegant  equipage  as  it 
rattled  away.  On  his  return  up  stairs,  the  rest  of  the  guests 
soon  dispersed,  and  he  was  left  alone.  Being  a  great  reader 
of  all  kinds  of  literature  (and  never  at  all  apologetic  for  that 
weakness),  he  sat  down  comfortably  to  read. 

The  clock  upon  his  study-table  pointed  to  a  few  minutes 
short  of  twelve,  when  his  attention  was  called  to  it  by  a  ring- 
ing at  the  door  bell.  A  man  of  plain  habits,  he  had  sent 
his  servants  to  bed  and  must  needs  go  down  to  open  the 
door.  He  went  down,  and  there  found  a  man  without  hat 
or  coat,  whose  shirt  sleeves  were  rolled  up  tight  to  his  shoul- 
ders. For  a  moment,  he  thought  the  man  had  been  fighting  ; 
the  rather,  as  he  was  much  agitated  and  out  of  breath.  A 
second  look,  however,  showed  him  that  the  man  was  particu- 
larly clean,  and  not  otherwise  discomposed  as  to  his  dress, 
than  as  it  answered  this  description. 

"  I  come  from  the  warm-baths,  sir,  round  in  the  neighbor- 
ing street." 

''  And  what  is  the  matter  at  the  warm-baths  ? " 

**  Would  you  please  to  come  directly,  sir.  We  found  that 
lying  on  the  table." 

He  put  into  the  physician's  hand  a  scrap  of  paper.  Phy- 
sician looked  at  it,  and  read  his  own  name  and  address  writ- 
ten in  pencil;  nothing  more.  He  looked  closer  at  the  writ- 
ing, looked  at  the  man,  took  his  hat  from  its  peg,  put  the  key 
of  his  door  in  his  pocket,  and  they  hurried  away  together. 

Wheli  they  came  to  the  warm-baths,  all  the  other  people 
belonging  to  that  establishment  were  looking  out  for  them 
at  the  door,  and  running  up  and  down  the  passages.  ^'  Request 
every  body  else  to  keep  back,  if  you  please,"  said  the  physi- 
cian aloud  to  the  master;  "  and  do  you  take  me  straight  to 
the  place,  my  friend,"  to  the  messenger. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  707 

The  messenger  hurried  before  him,  along  a  grove  of  little 
rooms,  and,  turning  into  one  at  the  end  of  the  grove,  looked 
round  the  door.  Physician  was  close  upon  him,  and  looked 
round  the  door  too. 

There  was  a  bath  in  that  corner,  from  which  the  water 
had  been  hastily  drained  off.  Lying  in  it,  as  in  a  grave  or 
sarcophagus,  with  a  hurried  drapery  of  sheet  and  blanket 
thrown  across  it,  was  the  body  of  a  heavily-made  man,  with 
an  obtuse  head,  and  coarse,  mean,  common  features.  A 
sky-light  had  been  opened  to  release  the  steam  with  which 
the  room  had  been  filled  ;  but  it  hung,  condensed  into  water- 
drops,  heavily  upon  the  walls,  and  heavily  upon  the  face  and 
figure  in  the  bath.  The  room  was  still  hot,  and  the  marble 
of  the  bath  still  warm  ;  but  the  face  and  figure  were  clammy 
to  the  touch.  The  white  marble  at  the  bottom  of  the  bath 
was  veined  with  a  dreadful  red.  On  the  ledge  at  the  side, 
were  an  empty  laudanum-bottle  and  a  tortoise-shell  handled 
penknife — soiled — but  not  with  ink. 

*'  Separation  of  jugular  vein — death  rapid — been  dead  at 
least  half  an  hour."  This  echo  of  the  physician's  words  ran 
through  the  passages  and  little  rooms,  and  through  the  house 
while  he  was  yet  straightening  himself  from  having  bent  down 
to  reach  to  the  bottom  of  the  bath,  and  while  he  was  yet 
dabbling  his  hands  in  the  water  ;  readily  veining  it  as  the 
marble  was  veined,  before  it  mingled  into  one  tint. 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  the  dress  upon  the  sofa,  and  to  the 
watch,  money,  and  pocket-book,  on  the  table.  A  folded  note 
half  buckled  up  in  the  pocket-book,  and  half  protruding  from 
it,  caught  his  observant  glance.  He  looked  at  it,  touched  it, 
pulled  it  a  little  further  out  from  among  the  leaves,  said 
quietly,  *'  This  is  addressed  to  me,"  and  opened  and  read  it. 

There  were  no  directions  for.  him  to  give.  The  people  of 
the  house  knew  what  to  do;  the  proper  authorities  were 
soon  brought  ;  and  they  took  an  equable  business-like  pos- 
session of  the  deceased,  and  of  what  had  been  his  property, 
with  no  greater  disturbance  of  manner  or  countenance  than 
usually  attends  the  winding-up  of  a  clock.  Physician  was 
glad  to  walk  out  into  the  night  air — was  even  glad,  in  spite 
of  his  great  experience,  to  sit  down  upon  a  door-step  for  a 
little  while  ;  feeling  sick  and  faint. 

Bar  was  a  near  neighbor  ot  his,  and  when  he  came  to  the 
house,  he  saw  a  light  in  the  room  where  he  knew  his  friend 
often  sat  late,  getting  up  his  work.  As  the  light  was  never 
there  when  Bar  was  not,  it  gave  him  assurance  that  Bar  was 


7o8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

not  yet  in  bed.  In  fact,  this  busy  bee  had  a  verdict  to  get 
to-morrow,  against  evidence,  and  was  improving  the  shining 
hours  in  setting  snares  for  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury. 

Physician's  knock  astonished  Bar;  but,  as  he  immediately 
suspected  that  somebody  had  come  to  tell  him  that  some- 
body else  was  robbing  him,  or  otherwise  trying  to  get  the 
better  of  him,  he  came  down  promptly  and  softly.  He  had 
been  cleaning  his  head  with  a  lotion  of  cold  water,  as  a  good 
preparative  to  providing  hot  water  for  the  heads  of  the  jury, 
and  had  been  reading  with  the  neck  of  his  shirt  thrown  wide 
open  that  he  might  the  more  freely  choke  the  opposite  wit- 
nesses. In  consequence,  he  came  down,  looking  rather  wild. 
Seeing  Physician,  the  least  expected  of  men,  he  looked 
wilder  and  said,  ^'  What's  the  matter  ?  " 

^^  You  asked  me  once  what  Merdle's  complaint  was." 

*^  Extraordinary  answer  !     I  know  I  did/' 

*'  I  told  you  I  had  not  found  it  out." 

**  Yes.     I  know  you  did.*' 

'*  I  have  found  it  out." 

*'  My  God  !  "  said  Bar,  starting  back,  and  clapping  his 
hand  upon  the  other's  breast.  *^  And  so  have  I  !  I  see  it 
in  your  face." 

They  went  into  the  nearest  room,  where  Physician  gave 
him  the  letter  to  read.  He  read  it  through,  half-a-dozen 
times.  There  was  not  much  in  it  as  to  quantity;  but  it  made 
a  great  demand  on  his  close  and  continuous  attention.  He 
could  not  sufficiently  give  utterance  to  his  regret  that  he  had 
not  himself  found  a  clew  to  this.  The  smallest  clew,  he  said, 
would  have  made  him  master  of  the  case,  and  what  a  case  it 
would  have  been  to  have  got  to  the  bottom  of  ! 

Physician  had  engaged  to  break  the  intelligence  in  Har- 
ley  Street.  Bar  could  not  at  once  return  to  his  inveigle- 
ments of  the  most  enlightened  and  remarkable  jury  he  had 
ever  seen  in  that  box,  with  whom,  he  could  tell  his  learned 
friend,  no  shallow  sophistry  would  go  down,  and  no  unhap- 
pily abused  professional  tact  and  skill  prevail  (this  was  the 
way  he  meant  to  begin  with  them);  so  he  said  he  would  go 
too,  and  would  loiter  to  and  fro  near  the  house  while  his 
friend  was  inside.  They  walked  there,  the  better  to  recover 
self-possession  in  the  air;  and  the  wings  of  day  were  flutter- 
ing the  night  when  Physician  knocked  at  the  door. 

A  footman  of  rainbow  hues,  in  the  public  eye,  was  sitting 
up  for  his  master — that  is  to  say,  was  fast  asleep  in  the 
kitchen,  over  a  couple  of  candles  and  a  newspaper,  demon- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  709 

strating  the  great  accumulation  of  mathematical  odds  against 
the  probabilities  of  a  hotise  being  set  on  fire  by  accident. 
When  this  serving  man  was  roused,  Physician  had  still  to 
await  the  rousing  of  the  chief  butler.  At  last  that  noble 
creature  came  into  the  dining-room  in  a  flannel  gown  and 
list  shoes;  but  with  his  cravat  on,  and  a  chief  butler  all  over. 
It  was  morning  now.  Physician  had  opened  the  shutters  of 
one  window  while  waiting,  that  he  might  see  the  light. 

*'  Mrs.  Merdle's  maid  must  be  called,  and  told  to  get  Mrs. 
Merdle  up,  and  prepare  her  as  gently  as  she  can,  to  see  me. 
I  have  dreadful  news  to  break  to  her." 

Thus,  Physician  to  the  chief  butler.  The  latter,  who  had 
a  candle  in  his  hand,  called  his  man  to  take  it  away.  Then 
he  approached  the  window  with  dignity  ;  looking  on  at  Phy- 
sician's news  exactly  as  he  had  looked  on  at  the  dinners  in 
that  very  room. 

''  Mr.  Merdle  is  dead." 

'^  I  should  wish/'  said  the  chief  butler,  "  to  give  a  month^s 
notice." 

"  Mr.  Merdle  has  destroyed  himself." 

^*  Sir,"  said  the  chief  butler,  ^^  that  is  very  unpleasant  to 
the  feelings  of  one  in  my  position,  as  calculated  to  awaken 
prejudice  ;  and  I  should  wish  to  leave  immediately." 

^*  If  you  are  not  shocked,  are  you  not  surprised,  man  ?" 
demanded  the  physician,  warmly. 

The  chief  butler,  erect  and  calm,  replied  in  these  memor- 
able words  :  *'  Sir,  Mr.  Merdle  never  was  the  gentleman,  and 
no  ungentlemanly  act  on  Mr.  Merdle's  part  would  surprise 
me.  Is  there  any  body  else  I  can  send  to  you,  or  any  other 
directions  I  can  give  before  I  leave,  respecting  what  you 
would  wish  to  be  done  ? " 

When  Physician,  after  discharging  himself  of  his  trust  up 
stairs,  rejoined  Bar  in  the  street,  he  said  no  more  of  his 
interview  with  Mrs.  Merdle  than  that  he  had  not  yet  told  her 
all,  but  that  what  he  had  told  her,  she  had  borne  pretty  well. 
Bar  had  devoted  his  leisure  in  the  street  to  the  construction 
of  a  most  ingenious  man-trap  for  catching  the  whole  of  his 
jury  at  a  blow  ;  having  got  that  matter  settled  in  his  mind, 
it  was  lucid  on  the  late  catastrophe,  and  they  walked  home 
slowly,  discussing  it  in  every  bearing.  Before  parting  at 
Physician's  door,  they  both  looked  up  at  the  sunny  morning 
sky,  into  which  the  smoke  of  a  few  early  fires  and  the  breath 
and  voices  of  a  few  early  stirrers  were  peacefully  rising,  and 
then  looked  round  upon  the  immense  city,  and  said:   If  aU 


7IO  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

those  hundreds  of  thousands  of  beggared  people  who  were 
yet  asleep  could  only  know,  as  they  two  spoke,  the  ruin  that 
impended  over  them,  what  a  fearful  cry  against  one  miserable 
soul  would  go  up  to  heaven  ! 

The  report  that  the  great  man  was  dead,  got  about  with 
astonishing  rapidity.  At  first,  he  was  dead  of  all  the  dis- 
eases that  ever  were  known,  and  of  several  brand-new  mala- 
dies invented  with  the  speed  of  light  to  meet  the  demand  of 
the  occasion.  He  had  concealed  a  dropsy  from  infancy,  he 
had  inherited  a  large  estate  of  water  on  the  chest  from  his 
grandfather,  he  had  had  an  operation  performed  upon  him 
every  morning  of  his  life  for  eighteen  years,  he  had  been  sub- 
ject to  the  explosion  of  important  veins  in  his  body  after  the 
manner  of  fire-works,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with 
his  lungs,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his  heart, 
he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his  brain.  Five  hun- 
dred people  who  sat  down  to  breakfast  entirely  uninformed 
on  the  whole  subject,  believed  before  they  had  done  breakfast 
that  they  privately  and  personally  knew  Physician  to  have 
said  to  Mr.  Merdle:  "  You  must  expect  to  go  out,  someday, 
like  the  snuff  of  a  candle  ;"  and  that  they  knew  Mr.  Merdle 
to  have  said  to  Physician  :  "A  man  can  die  but  once."  By 
about  eleven  o'clock  in  the  forenoon,  something  the  matter 
with  the  brain,  became  the  favorite  theory  against  the  field  ; 
and  by  twelve  the  something  had  been  distinctly  ascertained 
to  be  *'  pressure." 

Pressure  was  so  entirely  satisfactory  to  the  public  mind, 
and  seemed  to  make  every  body  so  comfortable,  that  it  might 
have  lasted  all  day  but  for  Bar's  having  taken  the  real  state 
of  the  case  into  court  at  half-past  nine.  This  led  to  its  be- 
ginning to  be  currently  whispered  all  over  London  by  about 
one,  that  Mr.  Merdle  had  killed  himself.  Pressure  however 
so  far  from  being  overthrown  by  the  discovery,  became  a 
greater  favorite  than  ever.  There  was  a  general  moralizing 
upon  pressure,  in  every  street.  All  the  people  who  had 
tried  to  make  money  and  had  not  been  able  to  do  it,  said: 
There  you  were  !  You  no  sooner  began  to  devote  yourself 
to  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  than  you  got  pressure.  The  idle 
people  improved  the  occasion  in  a  similar  manner.  See  said 
they,  what  you  brought  yourself  to  by  work,  work,  work  ! 
You  persisted  in  working,  you  overdid  it,  pressure  came  on 
and  you  were  done  for  !  This  consideration  was  very 
potent  in  many  quarters,  but  nowhere  more  so  than  among 
the  young  clerks  and  partners  who  had  never  been  in  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  711 

slightest  danger  of  overdoing  it.  These,  one  and  all  declared, 
quite  piously,  that  they  hoped  they  would  never  forget  the 
warning  as  long  as  they  lived,  and  that  their  conduct  might 
be  so  regulated  as  to  keep  off  pressure,  and  preserve  them  a 
comfort  to  their  friends  for  many  years. 

But  at  about  the  time  High  'Ehange,  pressure  began  to 
wane,  and  appalling  whispers  to  circulate,  east,  west,  north 
and  south.  At  first  they  were  faint,  and  went  no  further 
than  a  doubt  whether  Mr.  Merdle's  wealth  would  be  found  to 
be  as  vast  as  had  been  supposed  ;  whether  there  might  be  a 
temporary  difficulty  in  "  realizing"  it  ;  whether  there  might 
not  even  be  a  temporary  suspension  (say  a  month  or  so),  on 
the  part  of  the  wonderful  bank.  As  the  whispers  became 
louder,  which  they  did  from  that  time  every  minute, 
they  became  more  threatening.  He  had  sprung  from 
nothing,  by  no  natural  growth  or  process  that  any  one 
could  account  for  ;  he  had  been  after  all  a  low,  ignorant 
fellow  ;  he  had  been  a  down-looking  man,  and  no  one  had 
ever  been  able  to  catch  his  eye  ;  he  had  been  taken  up 
by  all  sorts  of  people,  in  quite  an  unaccountable  manner  ; 
he  had  never  had  any  money  of  his  own,  his  ventures  had 
been  utterly  reckless,  and  his  expenditure  had  been  most 
enormous.  In  steady  progression,  as  the  day  declined,  the 
talk  rose  in  sound  and  purpose.  He  had  left  a  letter  at  the 
baths  addressed  to  his  physician,  and  his  physician  had  got 
the  letter,  and  the  letter  would  be  produced  at  the  inquest 
on  the  morrow,  and  it  would  fall  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the 
multitude  he  had  deluded.  Numbers  of  men  in  every  pro- 
fession and  trade  would  be  blighted  by  his  insolvency  ;  old 
people  who  had  been  in  easy  circumstances  all  their  lives 
would  have  no  place  of  repentance  for  their  trust  in  him  but 
the  work-house  ;  legions  of  women  and  children  would  have 
their  whole  future  desolated  by  the  hand  of  this  mighty 
scoundrel.  Every  partaker  of  his  magnificent  feasts  would 
be  seen  to  have  been  a  sharer  in  the  plunder  of  innumerable 
homes  ;  every  servile  worshiper  of  riches  who  had  helped 
to  set  him  on  his  pedestal,  would  have  done  better  to  \yorship 
the  devil  point  blank.  So  the  talk,  lashed  louder  and  higher 
by  confirmation  on  confirmation,  and  by  edition  after  edition 
of  the  evening  papers,  swelled  into  such  a  roar  when  night 
came,  as  might  have  brought  one  to  believe  that  a  solitary 
watcher  on  the  gallery  above  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  would 
have  perceived  the  night  air  to  be  laden  with  a  heavy  mutter- 


712  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ing  of  the  name  of  Merdle,  coupled  with    every   form   of 
execration. 

For  by  that  time  it  was  known  that  the  late  Mr.  Merdle's 
complaint  had  been,  simply,  forgery  and  robbery.  He,  the 
uncouth  object  of  such  wide-spread  adulation,  the  sitter  at 
great  men's  feasts,  the  roc's  egg  of  great  ladies'  assemblies, 
the  subduer  of  exclusiveness,  the  leveler  of  pride,  the  patron 
of  patrons,  the  bargain-driver  with  a  minister  for  lordships 
of  the  circumlocution  ofhce,  the  recipient  of  more  acknowl- 
edgment within  some  ten  or  fifteen  years,  at  most,  than  had 
been  bestowed  in  England  upon  all  peaceful  public  benefac- 
tors, and  upon  all  the  leaders  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  with 
all  their  work  to  testify  for  them,  during  two  centuries  at 
least — he,  the  shining  wonder,  the  new  constellation  to  be 
followed  by  the  wise  men  bringing  gifts,  until  it  stopped  over 
certain  carrion  at  the  bottom  of  a  bath  and  disappeared — 
was  simply  the  greatest  forger  and  the  greatest  thief  that 
ever  cheated  the  gallows. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 

REAPING    THE    WHIRLWIND. 

With  a  precursory  sound  of  hurried  breath  and  hurried 
feet,  Mr.  Pancks  rushed  into  Arthur  Clennam's  counting- 
house.  The  inquest  was  over,  the  letter  was  public,  the  bank 
was  broken,  the  other  model  structures,  of  straw  had  taken 
fire  and  w^ere  turned  to  smoke.  The  admired  piratical  ship 
had  blown  up,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  fleet  of  ships  of  all 
rates  and  boats  of  all  sizes  ;  and  on  the  deep  was  nothing 
but  ruin  ;  nothing  but  burning  hulls,  bursting  magazines, 
great  guns  self-exploded,  tearing  friends  and  neighbors  to 
pieces,  drowning  men  clinging  to  unseaworthy  spars  and  going 
down  every  minute,  spent  swimmers,  floating  dead  and 
sharks.  ' 

The  usual  diligence  and  order  of  the  counting-house  at 
the  works  were  overthrown.  Unopened  letters  and  unsorted 
papers  lay  strewn  about  the  desk.  In  the  midst  of  these 
tokens  of  prostrated  energy  and  dismissed  hope,  the  master 
of  the  counting-house  stood  idle  in  his  usual  place,  with 
his  arms  crossed  on  the  desk,  and  his  head  bowed  down  upon 
them. 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  713 

Mr.  Pancks  rushed  in  and  saw  him,  and  stood  still.     In 

another  minute,  Mr.  Pancks's  arms  were  on  the  desk,  and 

Mr.  Pancks's  head  was  bowed  down  upon  them  ;  and  for 

some  time  they  remained  in  these  attitudes,  idle  and  silent, 

^with  the  width  of  the  little  room  between  them. 

Mr.  Pancks  was  the  first  to  lift  up  his  head  and  speak  : 

"  I  persuaded  you  to  it,  Mr.  Clennam.  I  know  it.  Say 
what  you  will.  You  can't  say  more  to  me  than  I  say  to 
myself.     You  can't  say  more  than  I  deserve." 

"  Oh,  Pancks,  Pancks  !  "  returned  Clennam,  ^*  don't  speak 
of  deserving.     What  do  I,  myself,  deserve  ? " 

**  Better  luck,"  said  Pancks. 

*'  I,"  pursued  Clennam,  without  attending  to  him,  *'  who 
have  ruined  my  partner  !  Pancks,  Pancks,  I  have  ruined 
Doyce  !  The  honest,  self-helpful,  indefatigable  old  man,  who 
has  worked  his  way  all  through  his  life  ;  the  man  who  -has 
contended  against  so  much  disappointment,  and  who  has 
brought  out  of  it  such  a  good  and  hopeful  nature  ;  the  man  I 
have  felt  so  much  for,  and  meant  to  be  so  true  and  useful  to  ; 
I  have  ruined  him — brought  him  to  shame  and  disgrace — 
ruined  him,  ruined  him  !  " 

The  agony  into  which  the  reflection  wrought  his  mind 
was  so  distressing  to  see,  that  Mr.  Pancks  took  hold  of  him- 
self by  the  hair  of  his  head,  and  tore  it  in  desperation  at 
the  spectacle. 

'*  Reproach  me  !  "  cried  Pancks.  "  Reproach,  me,  sir,  or 
I'll  do  myself  an  injury.  Say,  you  fool,  you  villain.  Say, 
ass,  how  could  you  do  it  !  Beast,  what  did  you  mean  by  it  1 
Catch  hold  of  me  somewhere.  Say  something  abusive  to 
me  !  "  All  the  time,  Mr.  Pancks  was  tearing  at  his  tough 
hair  in  a  most  pitiless  and  cruel  manner. 

•*  If  you  had  never  yielded  to  this  fatal  mania,  Pancks," 
said  Clennam,  more  in  commiseration  than  retaliation,  "  it 
would  have  been  how  much  better  for  you,  and  how  much 
better  for  me  !  " 

*' At  me  again,  sir  !  "  cried  Pancks,  grinding  his  teeth  in 
remorse.     '*  At  me  again  !  " 

^'  If  you  had  never  gone  into  those  accursed  calculations, 
and  brought  out  your  results  with  such  abominable  clear- 
ness," groaned  Clennam,  *'  it  would  have  been  how  much 
better  for  you,  Pancks,  and  how  much  better  for  me  !  " 

"  At  me  again,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  Pancks,  loosening  his  hold 
of  his  hair  ;  ^'  at  me  again,  and  again  !  " 

Clennam,  however,  finding  him  already  beginning  to  be 


714  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

pacified,  had  said  all  he  wanted  to  say,  and  more.  He  wrung 
his  hands,  only  adding,  "  Blind  leaders  of  the  blind,  Pancks! 
Blind  leaders  of  the  blind  !  But  Doyce,  Doyce,  Doyce  ;  my 
injured  partner  !  "  That  brought  his  head  down  on  the  desk 
once  more. 

Their  former  attitudes  and  their  former  silence  were  once 
more  first  encroached  upon  by  Pancks. 

"  Not  been  to  bed,  sir,  since  it  began  to  get  about.  Been 
high  and  low,  on  the  chance  of  finding  some  hope  of  saving 
any  cinders  from  the  fire.  All  in  vain.  All  gone.  All  van- 
ished." 

'*  I  know  it,"  returned  Clennam,  "  too  well." 

Mr.  Pancks  filled  up  a  pause  with  a  groan  that  came  out 
of  the  very  depths  of  his  soul. 

/'  Only  yesterday,  Pancks,"  said  Arthur  ;  *'  only  yesterday, 
Monday,  I  had  the  fixed  intention  of  selling,  realizing,  and 
making  an  end  of  it." 

**  I  can't  say  as  much  for  myself,  sir,"  returned  Pancks  ; 
**  though  it's  wonderful  how  many  people  I've  heard  of  who 
were  going  to  realize  yesterday,  of  all  days  in  the  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five,  if  it  hadn't  been  too  late  !  " 

His  steam-like  breathings,  usually  droll  in  their  effect, 
were  more  tragic  than  so  many  groans  ;  while  from  head  to 
foot,  he  was  in  that  begrimed,  besmeared,  neglected  state 
that  he  might  have  been  an  authentic  portrait  of  misfortune 
which  could  scarely  be  discerned  through  its  want  of  clean- 
ing. 

^'  Mr.  Clennam,  had  you  laid  out — every  thing  !  "  He  got 
over  the  break  before  the  last  word,  and  also  brought  out 
the  last  word  itself  with  great  diffculty  : 

"  Every  thing." 

Mr.  Pancks  took  hold  of  his  tough  hair  again,  and  gave  it 
such  a  wrench  that  he  pulled  out  several  prongs  of  it.  After 
looking  at  these  with  an  eye  of  wild  hatred,  he  put  them  in 
his  pocket. 

*'  My  course,"  said  Clennam,  brushing  away  some  tears 
that  had  been  silently  dropping  from  his  face,  ^'  must  be 
taken  at  once.  What  wretched  amends  I  can  make  must  be 
made.  I  must  clear  my  unfortunate  partner's  reputation.  I 
must  retain  nothing  for  myself.  I  must  resign  to  our  creditors 
the  power  of  management  I  have  so  much  abused,  and  I 
must  work  out  as  much  of  my  fault — or  crime — as  is  suscep- 
tible of  being  worked  out,  in  the  rest  of  my  days." 

'*  Is  it  impossible,  sir,  to  tide  over  the  present  ?  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  715 

**  Out  of  the  question.  Nothing  can  be  tided  over  now, 
Pancks.  The  sooner  the  business  can  pass  out  of  my  hands, 
the  better  for  it.  There  are  engagements  to  be  met,  this 
week,  which  would  bring  the  catastrophe  before  many  days 
were  over,  even  if  I  would  postpone  it  for  a  single  day,  by 
going  on  for  that  space,  secretly  knowing  what  I  know.  All 
last  night  I  thought  of  what  I  would  do  ;  what  remains  is  to 
do  it." 

"  Not  entirely  of  yourself  ?  "  said  Pancks,  whose  face  was 
as  damp  as  if  his  steam  were  turning  into  water  as  fast  as 
he  dismally  blew  it  off.     *'  Have  some  legal  help." 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better." 

*'  Have  Rugg." 

**  There  is  not  much  to  do.  He  will  do  it  as  well  as  any 
other." 

''  Shall  I  fetch  Rugg,  Mr.  Clennam  ?  " 

"  If  you  could  spare  the  time,  I  should  be  much  obliged 
to  you." 

Mr.  Pancks  put  on  his  hat  that  moment,  and  steamed 
away  to  Pentonville.  While  he  was  gone  Arthur  never 
raised  his  head  from  the  desk,  but  remained  in  that  one 
position. 

Mr.  Pancks  brought  his  friend  and  professional  adviser, 
Mr.  Rugg,  back  with  him.  Mr.  Rugg  had  had  such  ample 
experience,  on  the  road,  of  Mr.  Pancks  being  at  that  present 
in  an  irrational  state  of  mind,  that  he  opened  his  professional 
mediation  by  requesting  that  gentleman  to  take  himself  out 
of  the  way.     Mr.  Pancks,  crushed   and  submissive,  obeyed. 

"  He  is  not  unlike  what  my  daughter  was,  sir,  when  we 
began  the  breach  of  promise  action  of  Rugg  and  Bawkins,  in 
which  she  was  plaintiff,  *  said  Mr.  Rugg.  *'  He  takes  too 
strong  and  direct  an  interest  in  the  case.  His  feelings  are 
worked  upon.  There  is  no  getting  on,  in  our  profession, 
with  feelings  worked  upon,  sir." 

As  he  pulled  off  his  gloves  and  put  them  in  his  hat,  he 
saw,  in  a  side  glance  or  two,  that  a  great  change  had  come 
over  his  client. 

"I  am  sorry  to  perceive,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  ''that  you 
have  been  allowing  your  own  feelings  to  be  worked  upon. 
Now,  pray  don't,  pray  don't.  These  losses  are  much  to  be 
deplored,  sir,  but  we  must  look  'em  in  the  face." 

''  If  the  money  I  had  sacrificed  h^d  been  all  my  own, 
Mr.  Rugg."  sighed  Mr.  Clennam,  "  I  should  have  cared  far 
less." 


7i6  LITTLE  DORRIT, 

**  Indeed,  sir  ?"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  rubbing  his  hands  with  a 
cheerful  air.  ''  You  surprise  me.  That's  singular,  sir.  1 
have  generally  found,  in  my  experience,  that  it's  their  own 
money  people  are  most  particular  about.  I  have  seen  people 
get  rid  of  a  good  deal  of  other  people's  money,  and  bear  it 
very  well  ;  very  well  indeed." 

With  these  comforting  remarks,  Mr.  Rugg  seated  himself 
on  an  office-stool  at  the  desk  and  proceeded  to  business. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Clennam,  by  your  leave,  let  us  go  into  the 
matter.  Let  us  see  the  state  of  the  case.  The  question  is 
simple.  The  question  is  the  usual  plain,  straightforward, 
common-sense  question.  What  can  we  do  for  ourself  ? 
What  can  we  do  for  ourself  ?  " 

''  This  is  not  the  question  with  me,  Mr.  Rugg,"  said 
Arthur.  "  You  mistake  it  in  the  beginning.  It  is,  what  can  I 
do  for  my  partner,  how  can  I  best  make  reparation  to  him  ?  " 

'*  I  am  afraid,  sir,  do  you  know,"  argued  Mr.  Rugg,  per- 
suasively, ^'  that  you  are  still  allowing  your  feelings  to  be 
worked  upon.  I  dont  like  the  term  '  reparation,'  sir,  except 
as  a  lever  in  the  hands  of  counsel.  Will  you  excuse  m^y 
saying  that  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  offer  you  the  caution,  that 
you  really  must  not  allow  your  feelings  to  be  worked  upon  ?" 

""  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  Clennam,  nerving  himself  to  go  through 
with  what  he  had  resolved  upon,  and  surprising  that  gentle- 
man by  appearing,  in  his  despondency,  to  have  a  settled  de- 
termination of  purpose  ;  '^  you  give  me  the  impression  that 
you  will  not  be  much  disposed  to  adopt  the  course  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  to  take.  If  your  disapproval  of  it  should 
render  you  unwilling  to  discharge  such  business  as  it  neces- 
sitates, I  am  sorry  for  it,  and  must  seek  other  aid.  But 
I  will  represent  to  you  at  once,  that  to  argue  against  it  with 
me  is  useless." 

''  Good,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Rugg,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"Good,  sir.  Since  the  business  is  to  be  done  by  some  hands, 
let  it  be  done  by  mine.  Such  was  my  principle  in  the  case 
of  Rugg  and  Hawkins.     Such  is  my  principle  inmost  cases." 

Clennam  then  proceeded  to  state  to  Mr.  Rugg  his  fixed 
resolution.  He  told  Mr.  Rugg  that  his  partner  was  a  man  of 
great  simplicity  and  integrity,  and  that  in  all  he  meant  to  do, 
he  was  guided  above  all  things  by  a  knowledge  of  his  partner's 
character,  and  a  respect  for  his  feelings.  He  explained  that 
his  partner  was  then  absent  on  an  enterprise  of  importance, 
and  that  it  particularlybehooved  himself  publicly  to  accept  the 
blame  of  what  he  had  rashly  done,  and  publicly  to  exonerate 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  717 

his  partner  from  all  participation  in  the  responsibility  of  it, 
lest  the  successful  conduct  of  that  enterprise  should  be  en- 
dangered by  the  slightest  suspicion  wrongly  attaching  to  his 
partner's  honor  and  credit  in  another  country.  He  told  Mr. 
Rugg  that  to  clear  his  partner  morally,  to  the  fullest  extent, 
and  publicly  and  unreservedly  to  declare  that  he,  Arthur  Clen- 
nam,  of  that  firm,  had  of  his  own  sole  act,  and  even  express- 
ly against  his  partner's  caution,  embarked  his  resources  in 
the  swindles  that  had  lately  perished,  was  the  only  real 
atonement  within  his  power  ;  was  a  better  atonement  to  the 
particular  man  than  it  would  be  to  many  men  ;  and  was  there- 
fore the  atonement  he  had  first  to  make.  With  this  view,  his 
intention  was  to  print  a  declaration  to  the  foregoing  effect, 
which  he  had  already  drawn  up  ;  and,  besides  circulating  it 
among  all  who  had  dealings  with  the  house,  to  advertise  it  in 
the  public  papers.  Concurrently  with  this  measure  (the  de- 
scription of  which  cost  Mr.  Rugg  innumerable  wry  faces  and 
great  uneasiness  in  his  limbs),  he  would  address  a  letter  to  all 
the  creditors,  exonerating  his  partner  in  a  solemn  manner, 
informing  them  of  the  stoppage  of  the  house  until  their 
pleasure  could  be  known  and  his  partner  communicated 
with,  and  humbly  submitting  himself  to  their  direction.  If, 
through  their  consideration  for  his  partner's  innocence,  the 
affairs  could  ever  be  got  into  such  train  as  that  the  business 
could  be  profitably  resumed,  and  its  present  downfall  over- 
come, then  his  own  share  in  it  should  revert  to  his  partner, 
as  the  only  reparation  he  could  make  to  him  in  money  value 
for  the  distress  and  loss  he  had  unhappily  brought  upon  him, 
and  he  himself,  at  as  small  a  salary  as  he  could  live  upon, 
would  ask  to  be  allowed  to  serve  the  business  as  a  faithful 
clerk. 

Though  Mr.  Rugg  saw  plainly  there  was  no  preventing 
this  from  being  done,  still  the  wryness  of  his  face  and  the 
uneasiness  of  his  limbs  so  sorely  required  the  propitiation 
of  a  protest,  that  he  made  one.  ^'  I  offer  no  objection,  sir," 
said  he,  '*  I  argue  no  point  with  you.  I  will  carry  out  your 
views,  sir  ;  but,  under  protest."  Mr.  Rugg  then  stated,  not 
without  prolixity,  the  heads  of  his  protest.  These  were  in 
effect,  because  the  whole  town,  or  he  might  say  the  whole 
country,  was  in  the  first  madness  of  the  late  discovery,  and 
the  resentment  against  the  victims  would  be  very  strong  : 
those  who  had  not  been  deluded  being  certain  to  wax 
exceeding  wroth  with  them  for  not  having  been  as  wise  as 
they  were  :    and  those  who  had  been  deluded  be^,ng  certain 


7i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

to  find  excuses  and  reasons  for  themselves,  of  which  they 
were  equally  certain  to  see  that  other  sufferers  were  wholly 
devoid  ;  not  to  mention  the  great  probability  of  every 
individual  sufferer  persuading  himself,  to  his  violent  indig- 
nation, that  but  for  the  example  of  all  the  other  sufferers  he 
never  would  have  put  himself  in  the  way  of  suffering. 
Because  such  a  declaration  as  Clennam's,  made  at  such  a  time, 
would  certainly  draw  down  upon  him  a  storm  of  animosity, 
rendering  it  impossible  to  calculate  on  forbearance  in  the 
creditors,  or  on  unanimity  among  them  ;  and  exposing  him 
a  solitary  target  to  a  straggling  cross-fire,  which  might  bring 
him  down  from  half-a-dozen  quarters  at  once. 

To  all  this  Clennam  merely  replied  that,  granting  the 
whole  protest,  nothing  in  it  lessened  the  force,  or  could 
lessen  the  force,  of  the  voluntary  and  public  exoneration  of 
his  partner.  He  therefore,  once  for  all,  requested  Mr. 
Rugg's  immediate  aid  in  getting  the  business  dispatched. 
Upon  that,  Mr.  Rugg  fell  to  work  ;  and  Arthur,  retaining 
no  property  to  himself  but  his  clothes  and  books,  and  a 
little  loose  money,  placed  his  small  private  banker's  account 
with  the  papers  of  the  business. 

The  disclosure  was  made,  and  the  storm  raged  fearfully. 
Thousands  of  people  were  wildly  staring  about  for  some- 
body alive  to  heap  reproaches  on  ;  and  this  notable  case, 
courting  publicity,  set  the  living  somebody  so  much  wanted, 
on  a  scaffold.  When  poople  who  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  case  were  so  sensible  of  its  flagrancy,  people  who  lost 
money  by  it  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  deal  mildly  with 
it.  Letters  of  reproach  and  invective  showered  in  from  the 
creditors  ;  and  Mr.  Rugg,  who  sat  upon  the  high  stool  every 
day  and  read  them  all,  informed  his  client  within  a  week 
that  he  feared  there  were  writs  out. 

*'  I  must  take  the  consequences  of  what  I  have  done," 
said  Clennam.     ^'  The  writs  will  find  me  here." 

On  the  very  next  morning,  as  he  was  turning  in  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard  by  Mrs.  Plornish's  corner,  Mrs.  Plornish  stood 
at  the  door  waiting  for  him,  and  mysteriously  besought  him  to 
step  into  Happy  Cottage.     There  he  found  Mr.  Rugg. 

^'  I  thought  I'd  wait  for  you  here.  I  wouldn't  go  on  to 
the  counting-house  this  morning  if  1  was  you,  sir." 

''Why  not,  Mr.  Rugg?" 

**  There  are  as  many  as  five  out,  to  my  knowledge.'* 

"  It  can  not  be  too  soon  over,"  said  Clennam.  ''  Let  them 
take  me  at  once,'* 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  719 

"Yes,  but,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  getting  between  him  and  the 
door,  **  hear  reason,  hear  reason.  They'll  take  you  soon 
enough,  Mr.  Clennam,  1  don't  doubt  ;  but  hear  reason.  It 
almost  always  happens,  in  these  cases,  that  some  insig- 
nificant matter  pushes  itself  in  front  and  makes  much  of 
itself.  Now,  I  find  there's  a  little  one  out — a  mere  Palace 
Court  jurisdiction — and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  a  cap- 
tion may  be  made  upon  that.  I  wouldn't  be  taken  upon 
that." 

**  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Clennam. 

^*  I'd  be  taken  on  a  full-grown  one,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg. 
*'  It's  as  well  to  keep  up  appearances.  As  your  professional 
adviser,  I  should  prefer  your  being  taken  on  a  writ  from  one 
of  the  superior  courts,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  do  me 
that  favor.     It  looks  better." 

*'  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  Arthur,  in  his  dejection,  "  my  only 
wish  is,  that  it  should  be  over.  I  will  go  on,  and  take  my 
chance." 

^*  Another  word  of  reason,  sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Rugg.  "Now, 
this  is  reason.  The  other  may  be  taste  ;  but  this  is  reason. 
If  you  should  be  taken  on  the  little  one,  sir,  you  would  go 
to  the  Marshalsea.  Now  you  know  what  the  Marshalsea  is. 
Very  close.  Excessively  confined.  Whereas  in  the  King's 
Bench "  Mr.  Rugg  waved  his  right  hand  freely,  as  ex- 
pressing abundance  of  space. 

"  I  would  rather,"  said  Clennam,  "  be  taken  to  the  Mar- 
shalsea than  to  any  other  prison." 

"  Do  you  say  so,  indeed,  sir?**  returned  Mr.  Rugg.  "  Then 
this  is  taste,  too,  and  we  may  be  walking." 

He  was  a  little  offended  at  first,  but  he  soon  overlooked  it. 
They  walked  through  the  yard  to  the  other  end.  The 
Bleeding  Hearts  were  more  interested  in  Arthur  since  his 
reverses  than  formerly  :  now  regarding  him  as  one  who  was 
true  to  the  place  and  had  taken  up  his  freedom.  Many  of 
them  came  out  to  look  after  him,  and  to  observe  to  one 
another,  with  great  unctuousness,  that  "  he  was  pulled  down 
by  it."  Mrs.  Plornish  and  her  father  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  at  their  own  end,  much  depressed  and  shaking  their 
heads. 

There  was  nobody  visible  in  waiting  when  Arthur  and  Mr. 
Rugg  arrived  at  the  counting-house.  But  an  elderly  mem- 
ber of  the  Jewish  persuasion  preserved  in  rum,  followed 
them  close,  and  looked  in  at  the  glass  before  Mr.  Rugg 
had  opened  one    of    the  day's  letters.     "  Oh  !  "  said    Mr, 


720  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Rugg  looking  up.  *'  How  do  you  do  ?  Step  in. — Mr.  Clen- 
nam,  I  think  this  is  the  gentleman  I  was  mentioning." 

The  gentleman  explained  the  object  of  his  visit  to  be  "a 
tyfling  madder  of  bithznithz,"  and  executed  his  legal  func- 
tion. 

"  Shall  1  accompany  you,  Mr.  Clennam  ? "  asked  Mr.  Rugg 
politely,  rubbing  his  hands. 

^^  I  would  rather  go  alone,  thank  you.  Be  so  good  as  send 
me  my  clothes."  Mr.  Rugg  in  a  light  airy  way  replied  in 
the  affirmative,  and  shook  hands  with  him.  He  and  his  at- 
tendant then  went  down  stairs,  got  into  the  first  conveyance 
they  found,  and  drove  to  the  old  gates. 

*'  Where  I  little  thought,  heaven  forgive  me,"  said  Clen- 
nam to  himself,  *'  that  I  should  ever  enter  thus  !  " 

Mr.  Chivery  was  on  the  lock,  and  young  John  was  in  the 
lodge  :  either  newly  released  from  it,  or  waiting  to  take  his 
own  spell  of  duty.  Both  were  more  astonished  on  seeing 
who  the  new  prisoner  was,  than  one  might  have  thought  turn- 
keys would  have  been.  The  elder  Mr.  Chivery  shook  hands 
with  him  in  a  shamefaced  kind  of  way,  and  said,  "  I  don't 
call  to  mind,  sir,  as  I  was  ever  less  glad  to  see  you."  The 
younger  Mr.  Chivery,  more  distant,  did  not  shake  hands  with 
him  at  all  ;  he  stood  looking  at  him  in  state  of  indecision  so 
observable,  that  it  even  came  within  the  observation  of  Clen- 
nam with  his  heavy  eyes  and  heavy  heart.  Presently  after- 
ward, young  John  disappeared  into  the  jail. 

As  t^lennam  knew  enough  of  the  place  to  know  that  he 
was  required  to  remain  in  the  lodge  a  certain  time,  he  took 
a  seat  in  a  corner,  and  feigned  to  be  occupied  with  the 
perusal  of  letters  from  his  pocket.  They  did  not  so  engross 
his  attention,  but  that  he  saw,  with  gratitude,  how  the  elder 
Mr.  Chivery  kept  the  lodge  clear  of  prisoners  ;  how  he 
signed  to  some,  with  his  keys,  not  to  come  in,  how  he  nudged 
others  with  his  elbow  to  go  out,  and  how  he  made  his  mis- 
ery as  easy  to  him  as  he  could. 

Arthur  was  sitting  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  recall- 
ing the  past,  brooding  over  the  present,  and  not  attending  to 
either,  when  he  felt  himself  touched  upon  the  shoulder.  It 
was  by  young  John  ;  and  he  said,  *^  You  can  come  now." 

He  got  up  and  followed  young  John.  When  they  had 
gone  a  step  or  two  v/ithin  the  inner  iron  gate,  young  John 
turned  and  said  to  him  : 

"  You  want  a  room.     I  have  got  you  one." 

'*  I  thank  you  heartily." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  721 

Young  John  turned  again,  and  took  him  in  at  the  old 
doorway,  up  the  old  staircase,  into  the  old  room.  Arthur 
stretched  out  his  hand.  Young  John  looked  at  it,  looked  at 
him — sternly — swelled,  choked,  and  said  : 

''  I  don't  know  as  I  can.  No,  I  find  I  can't.  But  I  thought 
you'd  like  the  room,  and  here  it  is  for  you." 

Surprise  at  this  inconsistent  behavior  yielded  when  he  was 
gone  (he  went  away  directly)  to  the  feelings  which  the  empty 
room  awakened  in  Clennam's  wounded  breast,  and  to  the 
crowding  associations  with  the  one  good  and  gentle  creature 
who  had  sanctified  it.  Her  absence  in  his  altered  fortunes 
made  it,  and  him  in  it,  so  very  desolate  and  so  much  in  need 
of  such  a  face  of  love  and  truth,  that  he  turned  against  the 
wall  to  weep,  sobbing  out,  as  his  heart  relieved  itself,  "  Oh 
my  Little  Dorrit !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

THE    PUPIL    OF    THE    MARSHALSEA. 

The  day  was  sunny,  and  the  Marshalsea,  with  the  hot 
noon  striking  upon  it,  was  unwontedly  quiet.  Arthur  Clen- 
nam  dropped  into  a  solitary  arm-chair,  itself  as  faded  as  any 
in  the  jail,  and  yielded  himself  to  his  thoughts. 

In  the  unnatural  peace  of  having  gone  through  the  dreadful 
arrest,  and  got  there — the  first  change  of  feeling  which  the 
prison  most  commonly  induced,  and  from  which  dangerous 
resting-place  so  many  men  had  slipped  down  to  the  depths 
of  degradation  and  disgrace,  by  so  many  ways — he  could 
think  of  some  passages  in  his  life,  almost  as  if  he  were 
removed  from  them  into  another  state  of  existence.  Taking 
into  account  where  he  was,  the  interest  that  had  first  brought 
him  there  when  he  had  been  free  to  keep  away,  and  the  gen- 
tle presence  that  was  equally  inseparable  from  the  walls  and 
bars  about  him  and  from  the  impalpable  remembrances  of 
his  latter  life  which  no  walls  or  bars  could  imprison,  it  was 
not  remarkable  that  every  thing  his  memory  turned  upon 
should  bring  him  round  again  to  Little  Dorrit.  Yet  it  was 
remarkable  to  him  ;  not  because  of  the  fact  itself,  but  because 
of  the  reminder  it  brought  with  it,  how  much  the  dear  little 
creature  had  influenced  his  better  resolutions. 

None  of  us  clearly  know  to  whom  or  to  what  we  are 
indebted  in  this  wise,  until  some  marked  stop  in  the  whirl- 


7-2  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

ing  wheel  of  life  brings  the  right  perception  with  it.  It  comes 
with  sickness,  it  comes  with  sorrow,  it  comes  with  the  loss 
of  the  dearly  loved,  it  is  one  of  the  most  frequent  uses  of 
adversity.  It  came  to  Clennam  in  his  adversity,  strongly 
and  tenderly.  '*  When  I  first  gathered  myself  together,"  he 
thought,  *'  and  set  something  like  purpose  before  my  jaded 
eyes,  whom  had  I  before  me,  toiling  on,  for  a  good  object's 
sake,  without  encouragement,  without  notice,  against  ignoble 
obstacles  that  would  have  turned  an  army  of  received  heroes 
and  heroines  ?  One  weak  girl !  When  I  tried  to  conquer 
my  misplaced  love,  and  to  be  generous  to  the  man  who  was 
more  fortunate  than  I,  though  he  should  never  know  it  or 
repay  me  with  a  gracious  word,  in  whom  had  I  watched 
patience,  self-denial,  self-subdual,  charitable  construction,  the 
noblest  generosity  of  the  affections  ?  In  the  same  poor  girl! 
If  I,  a  man,  with  a  man's  advantages  and  means  and  energies, 
had  slighted  the  whisper  in  my  heart,  that  if  my  father  had 
erred,  it  was  my  first  duty  to  conceal  the  fault  and  to  repair 
it,  what  youthful  figure  with  tender  feet  going  almost  bare  on 
the  damp  ground,  with  spare  hands  ever  working  with  its 
slight  shape  but  half  protected  from  the  sharp  weather,  would 
have  stood  before  me  to  put  me  to  shame  ?  Little  Dorrit's." 
So  always,  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  faded  chair,  thinking. 
Always,  Little  Dorrit.  Until  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  met 
the  reward  of  having  wande-red  away  from  her,  and  suffered 
any  thing  to  pass  between  him  and  his  remembrance  of  her 
virtues. 

His  door  was  opened,  and  the  head  of  the  elder  Chivery 
was  put  in  a  very  little  way,  without  being  turned  toward 
him. 

^*  I  am  off  the  lock,  Mr.  Clennam,  and  going  out.  Can  I 
do  any  thing  for  you  ?  " 

"  Many  thanks.     Nothing." 

"  You'll  excuse  me  opening  the  door,"  said  Mr.  Chivery  ; 
"  but  I  couldn't  make  you  hear." 

*'  Did  you  knock  ?  " 

"  Half-a-dozen  times." 

Rousing  himself,  Clennam  observed  that  the  prison  had 
awakened  from  its  noontide  doze,  that  the  inmates  were 
loitering  about  the  shady  yard,  and  that  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon.     He  had  been  thinking  for  hours. 

^^  Your  things  is  come,"  said  Mr.  Chivery,  *'  and  my  son  is 
going  to  carry  'em  up.  I  should  have  sent  'em  up,  but  for 
his  wishing  to  carry  'em  himself.     Indeed  he  would  have  'em 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  723 

himself,  and  so  I  couldn't  send  *em  up.  Mr.  Clennam, 
could  I  say  a  word  to  you  ?  " 

'^  Pray  come  in,"  said  Arthur  ;  for  Mr.  Chivery's  head  was 
still  put  in  at  the  door  a  very  little  way,  and  Mr.  Chivery  had 
but  one  ear  upon  him,  instead  of  both  eyes. — This  was  native 
delicacy  in  Mr.  Chivery — true  politeness  ;  though  his  exte- 
rior had  very  much  of  a  turnkey  about  it,  and  not  the  least  of 
a  gentleman. 

^^  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chivery,  without  advancing  ; 
"  it's  no  odds  me  coming  in.  Mr.  Clennam,  don't  you  take 
no  notice  of  my  son  (if  you'll  be  so  good)  in  case  you  find  him 
cut  up  anyways  difficult.  My  son  has  a  art,  and  my  son's  art 
is  in  the  right  place.  Me  and  his  mother  knows  where  to  find 
?t,  and  we  find  it  sitiwated  correct." 

With  this  mysterious  speech  Mr.  Chivery  took  his  ear  away 
md  shut  the  door.  He  might  have  been  gone  ten  minutes, 
vhen  his  son  succeeded  him. 

"  Here's  your  portmanteau,"  he  said  to  Arthur,  putting  it 
.arefully  down. 

''  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I  am  ashamed  that  you  should 
,ave  the  trouble." 

He  was  gone  before  it  came  to  that;  but  soon  returned, 
vaying  exactly  as  before,  *'  Here's  your  black  box  ;  "  which 
A.^  also  put  down  with  care. 

^^  I  am  very  sensible  of  this  attention.  I  hope  we  may 
©hake  hands  now,  Mr.  John." 

Young  John,  however,  drew  back,  turning  his  right  wrist 
in  a  socket  made  of  his  left  thumb  and  middle  finger,  and 
oaid,  as  he  had  said  at  first,  "  I  don't  know  as  I  can.  No  ;  I 
/md  I  can't !  "  He  then  stood  regarding  the  prisoner  sternly, 
though  with  a  swelling  humor  in  his  eyes  that  looked  like 
pity. 

'*  Why  are  you  angry  with  me,"  said  Clennam,  "  and  yet 
so  ready  to  do  me  these  kind  services  ?  There  must  be  some 
mistake  between  us.  If  I  have  done  any  thing  to  occasion 
it  I  am  sorry." 

''  No  mistake,  sir,"  returned  John,  turning  the  wrist  back- 
ward and  forward  in  the  socket,  for  which  it  was  rather 
tight.  '^  No  mistake,  sir,  in  the  feelings  with  which  my  eyes 
behold  you  at  the  present  moment  !  If  I  was  at  all  fairly 
equal  to  your  weight,  Mr.  Clennam — which  I  am  not ;  and  if 
you  weren't  under  a  cloud — which  you  are  ;  and  if  it  wasn't 
against  all  rules  of  the  Marshalsea — which  it  is  ;  those  feel- 
ings are  such,  that  they  would  stimulate  me,  more  to  having 


724  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

it  out  with  you  in  a  round  on  the  present  spot,  than  to  any 
thing  else  I  could  name." 

Arthur  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  in  some  wonder,  and 
some  little  anger.  "  Well,  well  !  "  he  said.  ^'  A  mistake,  a 
mistake  ! "  Turning  away,  he  sat  down,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
in  the  faded  chair  again. 

Young  John  followed  him  with  his  eyes,  and,  after  a  short 
pause,  cried  out,  ^'  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

''  Freely  granted,"  said  Clennam,  waving  his  hand,  with- 
out raising  his  sunken  head.  '*  Say  no  more,  I  am  not 
worth  it." 

"  This  furniture,  sir,"  said  young  John,  in  a  voice  of  mild 
and  soft  explanation,  '^  belongs  to  me.  I  am  in  the  habit  of 
letting  it  out  to  parties  without  furniture,  that  have  the  room. 
It  ain't  much,  but  it's  at  your  service.  Free,  I  mean.  I 
could  not  think  of  letting  you  have  it  on  any  other  terms. 
You're  welcome  to  it  for  nothing." 

Arthur  raised  his  head  again,  to  thank  him  and  to  say  he 
could  not  accept  the  favor.  John  was  still  turning  his  wrist, 
and  still  contending  with  himself  in  his  former  divided 
manner. 

*'  What  is  the  matter  between  us  ?  "  said  Arthur. 

"  I  decline  to  name  it,  sir,"  returned  young  John,  suddenly 
turning  loud  and  sharp.     ^'  Nothing's  the  matter." 

Arthur  looked  at  him  again,  in  vain,  for  an  explanation  of 
his  behavior.  After  a  while,  Arthur  turned  away  his  head 
again.  Young  John  said,  presently  afterward,  with  the  ut- 
most mildness : 

''  The  little  round  table,  sir,  that's  nigh  your  elbow,  was — 
you  know  whose — I  needn't  mention  him — he  died  a  great 
gentleman.  I  bought  it  of  an  individual  that  he  gave  it  to, 
and  that  lived  here  after  him.  But  the  individual  wasn't  any 
ways  equal  to  him.  Most  individuals  would  find  it  hard  to 
come  up  to  his  level." 

Arthur  drew  the  little  table  nearer,  rested  his  arm  upon  it, 
and  kept  it  there. 

"  Perhaps  you  may  not  be  aware,  sir,"  said  young  John, 
''  that  I  intruded  upon  him  when  he  was  over  here  in  Lon- 
don. On  the  whole  he  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  an  intru- 
sion, though  he  was  so  good  as  to  ask  me  to  sit  down  and  to 
inquire  after  father  and  all  other  friends.  Leastways  humblest 
acquaintances.  He  looked,  to  me,  a  good  deal  changed,  and 
I  said  so  when  I  came  back.  I  asked  him  if  Miss  Amy  was 
well '* 


LITTLE  rJORRIT.  725 

**  And  she  was  ?  " 

^'  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  known  without^ 
putting  the  question  to  such  as  me,"  returned  young  John, 
after  appearing  to  take  a  large  invisible  pill.  ''  Since  you 
do  put  me  the  question,  I  am  sorry  I  can't  answer  it. 
But  the  truth  is,  he  looked  upon  the  inquiry  as  a  liberty, 
and  said,  '  What  was  that  to  me  ? '  It  was  then  I  became 
quite  aware  I  was  intruding  :  of  which  I  had  been  fearful 
before.  However,  he  spoke  very  handsome  afterward  ;  very 
handsome." 

They  were  both  silent  for  several  minutes  ;  except  that 
young  John  remarked,  at  about  the  middle  of  the  pause, 
**  He  both  spoke  and  acted  very  handsome." 

It  was  again  young  John  who  broke  the  silence,  by 
inquiring  : 

''  If  it's  not  a  liberty,  how  long  may  it  be  your  intention, 
sir,  to  go  without  eating  and  drinking  ?  " 

''  I  have  not  felt  the  want  of  any  thing  yet,"  returned  Clen- 
nam.     '*  I  have  no  appetite  just  now." 

''  The  more  reason  why  you  should  take  some  support, 
sir,"  urged  young  John.  "  If  you  find  yourself  going  on 
sitting  here  for  hours  and  hours  partaking  of  no  refresh- 
ment because  you  have  no  appetite,  why  then  you  should 
and  must  partake  of  refreshment  without  an  appetite.  I'm 
going  to  have  tea  in  my  own  apartment.  If  it's  not  a  liberty, 
please  to  come  and  take  a  cup.  Or  I  can  bring  a  tray  here, 
in  two  minutes." 

Feeling  that  young  John  would  impose  that  trouble  on 
himself  if  he  refused,  and  also,  feeling  anxious  to  show  that 
he  bore  in  mind  both  the  elder  Mr.  Chivery's  entreaty,  and 
the  younger  Mr.  Chivery's  apology,  Arthur  rose  and  ex- 
pressed his  willingness  to  take  a  cup  of  tea  in  Mr.  John's 
apartment.  Young  John  locked  his  door  for  him  as  they 
went  out,  slided  the  key  into  his  pocket  with  great  dexterity, 
and  led  the  way  to  his  own  residence. 

It  was  at  the  top  of  the  house  nearest  to  the  gateway. 
It  was  the  room  to  which  Clennam  had  hurried,  on  the 
day  when  the  enriched  family  had  left  the  prison  forever, 
and  where  he  had  lifted  her  insensible  from  the  floor. 
He  foresaw  where  they  were  going,  as  soon  as  their  feet 
touched  the  staircase.  The  room  was  so  far  changed  that 
it  was  papered  now,  and  had  been  repainted,  and  was  far 
more  comfortably  furnished  ;  but  he  could  recall  it  just 
as   he    had    seen  it  in  that  single  glance,  when  he  raised 


726  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

her  from  the  ground  and  carried  her  down  to  the 
carriage. 

Young  John  looked  hard  at  him,  biting  his  fingers. 

"  I  see  you  recollect  the  room,  Mr.  Clennam  ?" 

"  I  recollect  it  well,  heaven  bless  her  !  " 

Oblivious  of  the  tea,  young  John  continued  to  bite  his 
fingers  and  to  look  at  his  visitor,  as  long  as  his  visitor 
continued  to  glance  about  the  room.  Finally,  he  made  a 
start  at  the  teapot,  gustily  rattled  a  quantity  of  tea  into  it 
from  a  canister,  and  set  off  for  the  common  kitchen  to  fill  it 
with  hot  water. 

The  room  was  so  eloquent  to  Clennam,  in  the  changed 
circumstances  of  his  return  to  the  miserable  Marshalsea  ; 
it  spoke  to  him  so  mournfully  of  her,  and  of  his  loss  of  her  ; 
that  it  would  have  gone  hard  with  him  to  resist  it,  even 
though  he  had  not  been  alone.  Alone,  he  did  not  try.  He 
laid  his  hand  on  the  insensible  wall,  as  tenderly  as  if  it  had 
been  herself  that  he  touched,  and  pronounced  her  name  in  a 
low  voice.  He  stood  at  the  window,  looking  over  the  prison- 
parapet  with  its  grim  spiked  border,  and  breathed  a  bene- 
diction through  the  summer  haze  toward  the  distant  land 
where  she  was  rich  and  prosperous. 

Young  John  was  some  time  absent,  and  when  he  came 
back  shov/ed  that  he  had  been  outside,  by  bringing  with 
him  fresh  butter  in  a  cabbage  leaf,  some  thin  slices  of 
boiled  ham  in  another  cabbage  leaf,  and  a  little  basket  of 
water-cresses  and  salad  herbs.  Vv^hen  these  were  arranged 
upon  the  table  to  his  satisfaction,  they  sat  down  to  tea. 

Clennam  tried  to  do  honor  to  the  meal,  but  unavail- 
ingly.  The  ham  sickened  him,  the  bread  seemed  to  turn 
to  sand  in  his  mouth.  He  could  force  nothing  upon  himself 
but  a  cup  of  tea. 

*'  Try  a  little  something  green,"  said  young  John,  handing 
him  the  basket. 

He  took  a  sprig  or  so  of  water-cress,  and  tried  again  ; 
but  the  bread  turned  to  a  heavier  sand  than  before,  and 
the  ham  (though  it  was  good  enough  of  itself)  seemed 
to  blow  a  faint  simoom  of  ham  through  the  whole  Mar- 
shalsea. 

"Try  a  little  more  something  green,  sir,"  said  young  John  ; 
and  again  handed  the  basket. 

It  was  so  like  handing  green  meat  into  the  cage  of  a 
dull  imprisoned  bird,  and  John  had  so  evidently  brought 
the   little    basket    as  a  handful    of    fresh    relief  from    the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  727 

stale  hot  paving-stones  and  bricks  of  the  jail,  that  Clen- 
nam  said,  with  a  smile,  ''  it  was  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of 
putting  this  between  the  wires  ;  but  I  can  not  even  get  this 
down  to-day." 

As  if  the  difficulty  were  contagious,  young  John  soon 
pushed  away  his  own  plate,  and  fell  to  folding  the  cabbage- 
leaf  that  had  contained  the  ham.  When  he  had  folded  it 
into  a  number  of  layers,  one  over  another,  so  that  it  was 
small  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  he  began  to  flatten  it  between 
both  his  hands,  and  to  eye  Clennam  attentively. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  at  length  said,  compressing  his  green 
packet  with  some  force,  '^  that  if  it's  not  worth  your  while  to 
take  care  of  yourself  for  your  own  sake,  it's  not  worth  doing 
for  some  one  else's." 

"  Truly,"  returned  Arthur,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile,  "  I 
don't  know  for  whose." 

"  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  John,  warmly,  "  I  am  surprised  that 
a  gentleman  who  is  capable  of  the  straightforwardness  that 
you  are  capable  of,  should  be  capable  of  the  mean  action  of 
making  me  such  an  answer.  Mr.  Clennam,  I  am  surprised 
that  a  gentleman  who  is  capable  of  having  a  heart  of  his  own, 
should  be  capable  of  the  heartlessness  of  treating  mine  in 
that  way.  I  am  astonished  at  it,  sir.  Really  and  truly,  I  am 
astonished.'* 

Having  got  upon  his  feet  to  emphasize  his  concluding 
words,  young  John  sat  down  again,  and  fell  to  rolling  his 
green  packet  on  his  right  leg  ;  never  taking  his  eyes  off  Clen- 
nam, but  surveying  him  with  a  fixed  look  of  indignant  re- 
proach. 

''  I  had  got  over  it,  sir,"  said  John,  "  I  had  conquered  it, 
knowing  that  it  mi/st  be  conquered,  and  had  come  to  the 
resolution  to  think  no  more  about  it.  I  shouldn't  have  given 
my  mind  to  it  again,  I  hope,  if  to  this  prison  you  had  not 
been  brought,  and  in  an  hour  unfortunate  for  me  this  day  !" 
(In  his  agitation  young  John  adopted  his  mother's  powerful 
construction  of  sentences.)  ^'  When  you  first  came  upon  me, 
sir,  in  the  lodge,  this  day,  more  as  if  a  upas  tree  had  been 
made  a  capture  of  than  a  private  defendant,  such  mingled 
streams  of  feelings  broke  loose  again  within  me,  that  every 
thing  was  for  the  first  few  minutes  swept  away  before  them, 
and  I  was  going  round  and  round  in  a  vortex.  I  got  out  of 
it.  I  struggled  and  got  out  of  it.  If  it  was  the  last  word  I 
had  to  speak,  against  that  vortex  with  my  utmost  powers  I 
strove,  and  out  of  it   I   came.     1  argued  that  if  I  had  been 


728  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

rude,  apologies  was  due,  and  those  apologies  without  a  ques- 
tion of  demeaning,  I  did  make.  And  now  when  I've  been  so 
wishful  to  show  that  one  thought  is  next  to  being  a  holy  one 
with  me,  and  goes  before  all  others — now,  after  all,  you  dodge 
me  when  I  ever  so  gently  hint  at  it,  and  throw  me  back  upon 
myself.  For  do  not,  sir,"  said  young  John,  ^'  do  not  be  so 
base  as  to  deny  that  dodge  you  do,  and  thrown  me  back  upon 
myself  you  have  !  " 

All  amazement,  Arthur  gazed  at  him,  like  one  lost,  only 
saying,  ^'  What  is  it  ?  What  do  you  mean,  John  ? "  but  John, 
being  in  that  state  of  mind  in  which  nothing  would  seem  to 
be  more  impossible  to  a  certain  class  of  people  than  the  giv- 
ing of  an  answer,  went  ahead  blindly. 

"  I  hadn't,"  John  declared,  ''no,  I  hadn't,  and  I  never  had, 
the  audaciousness  to  think,  I  am  sure,  that  all  was  any  thing 
but  lost.  I  hadn't,  no,  why  should  I  say  I  hadn't  if  I  ever 
had,  any  hope  that  it  was  possible  to  be  so  blest,  not  after 
the  words  that  passed,  not  even  if  barriers  unsurmountable 
had  not  been  raised  !  But  is  that  a  reason  why  I  am  to 
have  no  memory,  why  I  am  to  have  no  thoughts,  v/hy  I  am 
to  have  no  sacred  spots,  nor  any  thing  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Arthur. 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  trample  on  it,  sir,"  John  went  on, 
scouring  a  very  prairie  of  wild  words,  "  if  a  person  can  make 
up  his  mind  to  be  guilty  of  the  action.  It's  all  very  well  to 
trample  on  it,  but  it's  there.  But  that  doesn't  make  it 
gentlemanly,  that  doesn't  make  it  honorable,  that  doesn't 
justify  throwing  a  person  back  on  himself  after  he  has  strug- 
gled and  strived  out  of  himself  like  a  butterfly.  The  world 
may  sneer  at  a  turnkey,  but  he's  a  man,  when  he  isn't  a  woman, 
whjch  among  female  criminals  he's  expected  to  be." 

Ridiculous  as  the  incoherence  of  his  talk  was,  there  was 
yet  a  truthfulness  in  young  John's  simple,  sentimental  charac- 
ter, and  a  sense  of  being  wounded  in  some  very  tender 
respect,  expressed  in  his  burning  face  and  in  the  agitation  of 
his  voice  and  manner,  which  Arthur  must  have  been  cruel  to 
disregard.  He  turned  his  thoughts  back  to  the  starting-point 
of  this  unknown  injury  ;  and  in  the  meantime  young  John, 
having  rolled  his  green  packet  pretty  round,  cut  it  carefully 
into  three  pieces,  and  laid  it  on  a  plate,  as  if  it  were  some 
particular  delicacy. 

*'  It  seems  to  be  just  possible,"  said  Arthur,  when  he  had 
retraced  the  conversation  to  the  water-cresses  and  back  again, 
*'  that  you  have  made  some  reference  to  Miss  Dorrit." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  729 

"  It  is  just  possible,  sir,"  returned  John  Chivery. 

"  I  don't  understand  it.  I  hope  I  may  not  be  so  unlucky 
as  to  make  you  think  I  mean  to  offend  you  again,  for  I  never 
have  meant  to  offend  you  yet,  when  I  say  I  don't  under- 
stand it." 

"  Sir,"  said  young  John,  '*  will  you  have  the  perfidy  to  deny 
that  you  know  and  long  have  known  that  1  felt  toward  Miss 
Dorrit,  call  it  not  the  presumption  of  love,  but  adoration  and 
sacrifice  ? " 

^'  Indeed,  John,  I  will  not  have  any  perfidy  if  I  know  it  ; 
why  you  should  suspect  me  of  it  I  am  at  a  loss  to  think.  Did 
you  ever  hear  from  Mrs.  Chivery,  your  mother,  that  I  went 
to  see  her  once  ?  " 

^^  No,  sir,"  returned  John,  shortly.  "  Never  heard  of  such 
a  thing." 

"  But  I  did.     Can  you  imagine  why  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"'  returned  John,  shortly.  "  I  can't  imagine 
why." 

*'  I  will  tell  you.  I  was  solicitous  to  promote  Miss  Dor- 
rit's  happiness  ;  and  if  1  could  have  supposed  that  Miss  Dor- 
rit returned  your  affection " 

Poor  John  Chivery  turned  crimson  to  the  tips  of  his  ears. 
^'  Miss  Dorrit  never  did,  sir.  I  wish  to  be  honorable  and 
true,  so  far  as  in  my  humble  way  I  can,  and  I  would  scorn 
to  pretend  for  a  moment  that  she  ever  did,  or  that  she  ever 
led  me  to  believe  she  did  ;  no,  nor  even  that  it  was  ever  to 
be  expected  in  any  cool  reason  that  she  would  or  could. 
She  was  far  above  me  in  all  respects  at  all  times.  As  like- 
wise," added  John,  '^  similarly  was  her  gen-teel  family.'* 

His  chivalrous  feeling  toward  all  that  belonged  to  her, 
made  him  so  very  respectable,  in  spite  of  his  small  stature 
and  his  rather  weak  legs,  and  his  very  weak  hair,  and  his 
poetical  temperament,  that  a  Goliath  might  have  sat  in  his 
place  demanding  less  consideration  at  Arthur's  hands. 

"  You  speak,  John,"  he  said,  with  cordial  admiration,  "  like 
a  man." 

''  Well,  sir,"  returned  John,  brushing  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  *'  then  I  wish  you'd  do  the  same." 

He  was  quick  with  his  unexpected  retort,  and  it  again 
made  Arthur  regard  him  with  a  wondering  expression  of 
face. 

"  Leastways,"  said  John,  stretching  his  hand  across  the 
tea-tray,  "  if  too  strong  a  remark,  withdrawn  !  But,  why  not, 
why  not  ?     When  I  say  to  you,  Mr.  Clennam,  take  care  of 


730  LITTLE  DORRTr. 

yourself  for  some  one  else's  sake,  why  not  be  open  though  a 
turnkey  !  Why  did  I  get  you  the  room  which  I  knew  you'd 
like  best  ?  Why  did  I  carry  up  your  things  ?  Not  that  I 
found  'em  heavy  ;  I  don't  mention  'em  on  that  accounts  ;  far 
from  it.  Why  have  I  cultivated  you  in  the  manner  I  have 
done,  since  the  morning  ?  On  the  ground  of  your  merits  ? 
No.  They're  very  great,  I've  no  doubt  at  all ;  but  not  on 
the  ground  of  them.  Another's  merits  have  had  their 
weight,  and  have  had  far  more  weight  with  me.  Then  why 
not  speak  free  ?" 

'^  Unaffectedly,  John,"  said  Clennam,  "  you  are  so  good  a 
fellow,  and  I  have  so  true  a  respect  for  your  character,  that 
if  I  have  appeared  to  be  less  sensible  than  I  really  am,  of 
the  fact  that  the  kind  services  you  have  rendered  me  to-day 
are  attributable  to  my  having  been  trusted  by  Miss  Dorrit  as 
her  friend — I  confess  it  to  be  a  fault,  and  I  ask  your  forgive- 
ness." 

"  Oh  !  why  not,*'  John  repeated  with  returning  scorn,  "  why 
not  speak  free  !" 

^'  I  declare  to  you,"  returned  Arthur,  **  that  I  do  not  un- 
derstand you.  Look  at  me.  Consider  the  trouble  I  have 
been  in.  Is  it  likely  that  I  would  willfully  add  to  other  self- 
reproaches,  that  of  being  ungrateful  or  treacherous  to  you  ? 
I  do  not  understand  you." 

John's  incredulous  face  slowly  softened  into  a  face  of 
doubt.  He  rose,  backed  into  the  garret-window  of  the  room, 
beckoned  Arthur  to  come  there,  and  stood  looking  at  him 
thoughtfully. 

''Mr.  Clennam,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  don't 
know  ? " 

"  What,  John  ?" 

''  Lord,"  said  young  John,  appealing  with  a  gasp  to  the 
spikes  on  the  wall.     "  He  says  what  !" 

Clennam  looked  at  the  spikes,  and  looked  at  John  ;  and 
looked  at  the  spikes,  and  looked  at  John. 

"  He  says  what  !  And  what  is  more,"  exclaimed  young 
John,  surveying  him  in  a  doleful  maze,  "  and  he  appears  to 
mean  it  !     Do  you  see  this  window,  sir  ?'* 

"  Of  course  I  see  this  window." 

"  See  this  room  ?" 

"  Why,  of  course  I  see  this  room." 

"  That  wall  opposite,  and  that  yard  down  below  ?  They 
have  all  been  witnesses  of  it,  from  day  to  day,  from  night  to 
night,  from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month.     For  how 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  731 

often  have  I  seen  Miss  Dorrit  here  when  she  has  not  seen 
me  ! 

'^  Witnesses  of  what  ?"  said  Clennam. 

"  Of  Miss  Dorrit's  love.'* 

''  For  whom  !" 

^'You,"  said  John.  And  touched  him  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  upon  the  breast,  and  backed  to  his  chair,  and  sat 
down  on  it  with  a  pale  face,  holding  the  arms,  shaking  his 
head  at  him. 

If  he  had  dealt  Clennam  a  heavy  blow,  instead  of  laying 
that  light  touch  upon  him,  its  effect  could  not  have  been  to 
shake  him  more.  He  stood  amazed  ;  his  eyes  looking  at 
John  ;  his  lips  parted,  and  seeming  now  and  then  to  form 
the  word  "  Me  ! "  without  uttering  it ;  his  hands  dropped  at 
his  sides  ;  his  whole  appearance  that  of  a  man  who  had 
been  awakened  from  sleep,  and  stupefied  by  intelligence 
beyond  his  full  comprehension. 

''  Me  !  "  he  at  length  said  aloud. 

*'  Ah  !  "  groaned  young  John.     "  You  !  " 

He  did  what  he  could  to  muster  a  smile,  and  returned, 
"Your  fancy.     You  are  completely  mistaken." 

"  I  mistaken,  sir  !  "  said  young  John.  '''I  completely  mis- 
taken on  that  subject  !  No,  Mr.  Clennam,  don't  tell  me  so. 
On  any  other,  if  you  like,  for  I  don't  set  up  to  be  a  penetra- 
ting character,  and  am  well  aware  of  my  own  deficiencies. 
But,  /  mistaken  on  a  point  that  has  caused  me  more  smart 
in  my  breast  than  a  flight  of  savages'  arrows  could  have 
done  !  /  mistaken  on  a  point  that  almost  sent  me  into  my 
grave,  as  I  sometimes  wished  it  would,  if  the  grave  could 
only  have  been  made  compatible  with  the  tobacco-business 
and  father  and  mother's  feelings  !  I  mistaken  on  a  point 
that  even  at  the  present  moment,  makes  me  take  out  my 
pocket-handkerchief  like  a  great  girl,  as  people  say  ;  though 
I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why  a  great  girl  should  be  a  term 
of  reproach,  for  every  rightly  constituted  male  mind  loves 
'em  great  and  small.     Don't  tell  me  so,  don't  tell  me  so  !  " 

Still  highly  respectable  at  bottom,  though  absurd  enough 
upon  the  surface,  young  John  took  out  his  pocket-handker- 
chief with  a  genuine  absence  both  of  display  and  conceal- 
ment, which  is  only  to  be  seen  in  a  man  with  a  great  deal  of 
good  in  him,  when  he  takes  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  for 
the  purpose  of  wiping  his  eyes.  Having  dried  them,  and 
indulged  in  the  harmless  luxury  of  a  sob  and  a  sniff  he  put 
it  up  again. 


732  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

The  touch  was  still  in  its  influence  so  like  a  blow,  that 
Arthur  could  not  get  many  words  together  to  close  the  sub- 
ject with.  He  assured  John  Chivery  when  he  had  returned 
his  handkerchief  to  his  pocket,  that  he  did  all  honor  to  his 
disinterestedness  and  to  the  fidelity  of  his  remembrance  of 
Miss  Dorrit.     As  to  the  impression   on   his  mind,  of  which 

he  had  just  relieved  it here   John   interposed,  and   said, 

"  no  impression  !  certainty  !  '* — as  to  that,  they  might  per- 
haps speak  of  it  at  another  time  but  would  say  no  more  now. 
Feeling  low-spirited  and  w^eary,  he  would  go  back  to  his 
room,  with  John's  leave,  and  come  out  no  more  that  night. 
John  assented,  and  he  crept  back  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
to  his  own  lodging. 

The  feeling  of  the  blow  was  still  so  strong  upon  him,  that 
when  the  dirty  old  woman  was  gone  whom  he  found  sitting 
on  the  stairs  outside  his  door,  waiting  to  make  his  bed,  and 
who  gave  him  to  understand  while  doing  it,  that  she  had 
received  her  instruction  from  Mr.  Chivery,  ^^  not  the  old  'un 
but  the  young  'un,"  he  sat  down  in  the  faded  arm-chair, 
pressing  his  head  between  his  hands,  as  if  he  had  been 
stunned.  Little  Dorrit  love  him  !  More  bewildering  to  him 
than  his  misery,  far. 

Consider  the  improbability.  He  had  been  accustomed  to 
call  her  his  child,  and  his  dear  child,  and  to  invite  her  con- 
fidence by  dwelling  upon  the  difference  in  their  respective 
ages,  and  to  speak  of  himself  as  one  who  is  turning  old. 
Yet  she  might  not  have  thought  him  old.  Something  re- 
minded him  that  he  had  not  thought  himself  so,  until  the 
roses  had  floated  away  upon  the  river. 

He  had  her  two  letters  among  other  papers  in  his  box, 
and  he  took  them  out  and  read  them.  There  seemed  to  be  a 
sound  in  them  like  the  sound  of  her  sweet  voice.  It  fell  upon 
his  ear  with  many  tones  of  tenderness,  that  were  not  insus- 
ceptible of  the  new  meaning.  Now  it  was  that  the  quiet 
desolation  of  her  answer,  '^  No,  no,  no,"  made  to  him  that 
night  in  that  very  room — that  night,  when  he  had  been 
shown  the  dawn  of  her  altered  fortune,  and  when  other 
words  had  passed  between  them  which  he  had  been  destined 
to  remember,  in  humiliation  and  a  prisoner,  rushed  into  his 
mind. 

Consider  the  improbability. 

But  it  had  a  preponderating  tendency,  when  considered, 
to  become  fainter.  There  was  another  and  a  curious  inquiry 
of  his  own  heart's  that  concurrently  became  stronger.    In  the 


LITTLE  DORR  IT.  733 

reluctance  he  had  felt  to  believe  that  she  loved  any  one  ;  in 
his  desire  to  set  that  question  at  rest  ;  in  a  half-formed  con- 
sciousness he  had  had,  that  there  would  be  a  kind  of  noble- 
ness in  his  helping  her  love  for  any  one  ;  was  there  no 
suppressed  something  on  his  own  side  that  he  had  hushed  as 
it  arose  ?  Had  he  ever  whispered  to  himself  that  he  must  not 
think  of  such  a  thing  as  her  loving  him,  that  he  must  not  take 
advantage  of  her  gratitude,  that  he  must  keep  his  experience 
in  remembrance  as  a  warning  and  reproof  ;  that  he  must 
regard  such  youthful  hopes  as  having  passed  away,  as  his 
friend's  dead  daughter  had  passed  away  ;  that  he  must  be 
steady  in  saying  to  himself  that  the  time  had  gone  by  him, 
and  he  v\^as  too  saddened  and  old  ? 

He  had  kissed  her  when  he  raised  her  from  the  ground, 
on  the  day  when  she  had  been  so  consistently  and  expressively 
forgotten.  Quite  as  he  might  have  kissed  her,  if  she  had  been 
conscious  ?     No  difference  ? 

The  darkness  found  him  occupied  with  these  thoughts. 
The  darkness  also  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plornish  knocking  at 
his  door.  They  brought  with  them  a  basket,  filled  with 
choice  selections  from  that  stock  in  trade  which  met  with 
such  a  quick  sale  and  produced  such  a  slow  return.  Mrs. 
Plornish  was  affected  to  tears.  Mr.  Plornish  amiably 
growled,  in  his  philosophical  but  not  lucid  manner,  that 
there  was  ups  you  see,  and  there  was  downs.  It  was  in  wain 
to  ask  why  ups,  why  downs;  there  they  was,  you  know. 
He  had  heerd  it  given  for  a  truth  that  accordin'  as  the 
world  went  round,  which  round  it  did  rewolve  undoubted, 
even  the  best  of  gentlemen  must  take  his  turn  of  standing 
with  his  ed  upside  down  and  all  his  air  a-flying  the  wrong 
way  into  what  you  might  call  space.  Wery  well  then. 
What  Mr.  Plornish  said  was,  wery  well  then.  That  gentle- 
man's ed  would  come  up'ards  when  his  turn  come,  that  gen- 
tleman's air  would  be  a  pleasure  to  look  upon  being  all 
smooth  again,  and  wery  well  then  ! 

It  has  been  already  stated  that  Mrs.  Plornish,  not  being 
philosophical,  wept.  It  further  happened  that  Mrs.  Plorn- 
ish, not  being  philosophical,  was  intelligible.  It  may  have 
arisen  out  of  her  softened  state  of  mind  ;  out  of  her  sex's 
wit  ;  out  of  a  woman's  quick  association  of  ideas  ;  or  out  of 
a  woman's  no  association  of  ideas,  but  it  further  happened 
somehow,  that  Mrs.  Plornish's  intelligibility  displayed  itself 
upon  the  very  subject  of  Arthur's  meditations. 

"  The  way  father  has  been  talking  about  you,  Mr.  Clen- 


734  LITTLE  DORRTr. 

nam,"  said  Mrs.  Plornish,  '^  you  hardly  would  believe.  Its 
made  him  quite  poorly.  As  to  his  voice,  this  misfortune 
has  took  it  away.  You  know  what  a  sweet  singer  father  is  ; 
but  he  couldn't  get  a  note  out  for  the  children  at  tea,  if 
you'll  credit  what  I  tell  you." 

While  speaking,  Mrs.  Plornish  shook  her  head,  and  wiped 
her  eyes,  and  looked  retrospectively  about  the  room. 

^' As  to  Mr.  Baptist,"  pursued  Mrs.  Plornish,  ''whatever 
he'll  do  when  he  comes  to  know  of  it,  I  can't  conceive  nor 
yet  imagine.  He'd  have  been  here  before  now,  you  may 
be  sure,  but  that  he's  away  on  confidential  business  of  your 
own.  The  persevering  manner  in  which  he  follows  up  that 
business,  and  gives  himself  no  rest  from  it — it  really  do," 
said  Mrs.  Plornish,  winding  up  in  the  Italian  manner,  ''  as 
I  say  to  him,   Mooshattonisha  padrona." 

Though  not  conceited,  Mrs.  Plornish  felt  that  she  had 
turned  this  Tuscan  sentence  with  peculiar  elegance.  Mr. 
Plornish  could  not  conceal  his  exultation  in  her  accomplish- 
ments as  a  linguist. 

''  But  what  I  say  is,  Mr.  Clennam,"  the  good  woman  went 
on,  "  there's  always  something  to  be  thankful  for,  as  I  am 
sure  you  will  yourself  admit.  Speaking  in  this  room,  it's 
not  hard  to  think  what  the  present  something  is.  It's  a 
thing  to  be  thankful  for,  indeed,  that  Miss  Dorrit  is  not 
here  to  know  it." 

Arthur  thought  she  looked  at  him  with  particular  expres- 
sion. 

^'  It's  a  thing,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Plornish,  *'  to  be  thank- 
ful for,  indeed,  that  Miss  Dorrit  is  far  away.  It's  to  be 
hoped  she  is  not  likely  to  hear  of  it.  If  she  had  been  here 
to  see  it,  sir,  it's  not  to  be  doubted  that  the  sight  of  you," 
Mrs.  Plornish  repeated  those  words — ''  not  to  be  doubted, 
that  the  sight  of_>^^/^ — in  misfortune  and  trouble,  would  have 
been  almost  too  much  for  her  affectionate  heart.  There's 
nothing  I  could  think  of,  that  would  have  touched  Miss  Dor- 
rit so  bad  as  that." 

Of  a  certainty  Mrs.  Plornish  did  look  at  him  now,  with  a 
sort  of  quivering  defiance  in  her  friendly  emotion. 

"  Yes,"  said  she.  ''  And  it  shows  what  notice  father  takes, 
though  at  his  time  of  life,  that  he  says  to  me  this  afternoon, 
which  Happy  Cottage  knows  I  neither  make  it  up  nor  any- 
ways enlarge,  '  Mary,  it's  much  to  be  rejoiced  in  that  Miss 
Dorrit  is  not  on  the  spot  to  behold  it.'  Those  were  father's 
words.     Father's  own   words  was,  '  Much  to  be  rejoiced  in, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  735 

Mary,  that  Miss  Dorrit  is  not  on  the  spot  to  behold  it.'  I 
says  to  father  then,  I  says  to  him,  '  Father,  you  are  right  ! ' 
That,"  Mrs.  Plornish  concluded,  with  the  air  of  a  very  pr^ « 
cise  legal  witness,  ''  is  what  passed  betwixt  father  and  me. 
And  I  tell  you  nothing  but  what  did  pass  betwixt  me  and 
father." 

Mr.  Plornish,  as  being  of  a  more  laconic  temperament, 
embraced  this  opportunity  of  interposing  with  the  suggestion 
that  she  should  now  leave  Mr.  Clennam  to  himself.  ''  For 
you  see,"  said  Mr.  Plornish,  gravely,  '*  I  know  what  it  is,  old 
gal  ; "  repeating  that  valuable  remark  several  times,  as  if  it 
appeared  to  him  to  include  some  great  moral  secret.  Finally, 
the  worthy  couple  w^ent  away  arm  in  arm. 

Little  Dorrit,  Little  Dorrit.  Again,  for  hours.  Always 
Little  Dorrit  ! 

Happily,  if  it  ever  had  been  so,  it  was  over  and  better  over. 
Granted,  that  she  had  loved  him,  and  he  had  known  it  and 
had  suffered  himself  to  love  her,  what  a  road  to  have  led  her 
away  upon — the  road  that  would  have  brought  her  back  to 
this  miserable  place  !  He  ought  to  be  much  comforted  by 
the  reflection  that  she  was  quit  of  it  forever  ;  that  she  was, 
or  would  soon  be,  married  (vague  rumors  of  her  father's 
projects  in  that  direction  had  reached  Bleeding  Heart  Yard, 
with  the  news  of  her  sister's  marriage)  ;  and  that  the  Mar- 
shalsea  gate  had  shut  forever  on  all  those  perplexed  possi- 
bilities, of  a  time  that  was  gone. 

Dear  Little  Dorrit. 

Looking  back  upon  his  own  poor  story,  she  was  its  van- 
ishing point.  Every  thing  in  its  perspective  led  to  her 
innocent  figure.  He  had  traveled  thousands  of  miles 
toward  it ;  previous  unquiet  hopes  and  doubts  had  worked 
themselves  out  before  it  ;  it  was  the  center  of  the  interest 
of  his  life  ;  it  was  the  termination  of  every  thing  that  was 
good  and  pleasant  in  it ;  beyond  there  was  nothing  but  mere 
waste  and  darkened  sky. 

As  ill  at  ease  as  on  the  first  night  of  his  lying  down  to 
sleep  within  those  dreary  walls,  he  wore  the  night  out  with 
such  thoughts.  What  time  young  John  lay  wrapt  in  peace- 
ful slumber,  after  composing  and  arranging  the  following 
monumental  inscription  on  his  pillow  : 


736  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

STRANGER  ! 
RESPECT  THE  TOMB  OF 

JOHN  CHIVERY,  junior, 

WHO  DIED    AT    AN    ADVANCED    AGE 

NOT  NECESSARY  TO  MENTION. 

HE  ENCOUNTERED  HIS  RIVAL    IN  A  DISTRESSED  STATE, 

AND    FELT    INCLINED 

TO  HAVE  A  ROUND    WITH  HIM  ; 

BUT,  FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  THE  LOVED  ONE, 
CONQUERED    THOSE    FEELINGS   OF    BITTERNESS,    AND     BECAME 

MAGNANIMOUS. 
CHAPTER  XXVIIL 

AN  APPEARANCE  IN  THE  MARSHALSEA. 

The  Opinion  of  the  community  outside  the  prison  gates 
bore  hard  on  Clennam  as  time  went  on,  and  he  made  no 
friends  among  the  community  within.  Too  depressed  to 
associate  with  the  herd  in  the  yard,  who  got  together  to  for- 
get their  cares  ;  too  retiring  and  too  unhappy  to  join  in  the 
poor  socialities  of  the  tavern  ;  he  kept  his  own  room,  and 
was  held  in  distrust.  Some  said  he  was  proud  ;  some 
objected  that  he  was  sullen  and  reserved  ;  some  were  con- 
temptuous of  him,  for  that  he  was  a  poor-spirited  dog  who 
pined  under  his  debts.  The  whole  population  were  shy  of 
him  on  these  various  counts  of  indictment,  but  especially  the 
last,  which  involved  a  species  of  domestic  treason  ;  and  he 
soon  became  so  confirmed  in  his  seclusion,  that  his  only 
time  for  walking  up  and  down  was  when  the  evening  club 
were  assembled  at  their  songs  and  toasts  and  sentiments, 
and  when  the  yard  was  nearly  left  to  the  women  and 
children. 

Imprisonment  began  to  tell  on  him.  He  knew  that  he 
idled  and  moped.  After  what  he  had  known  of  the 
influences  of  imprisonment  within  the  four  small  walls  of 
the  very  room  he  occupied,   this   consciousness  made  him 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  737 

•afraid  of  himself.  Shrinking  from  the  observation  of  other 
men,  and  shrinking  from  his  own,  he  began  to  change  very 
sensibly.  Any  body  might  see  that  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
was  dark  upon  him. 

One  day  when  he  might  have  been  some  ten  or  twelve 
weeks  in  jail,  and  when  he  had  been  trying  to  read  and  had 
not  been  able  to  release  even  the  imaginary  people  of  the 
book  from  the  Marshalsea,  a  footstep  stopped  at  his  door, 
and  a  hand  tapped  at  it.  He  arose  and  opened  it,  and  an 
agreeable  voice  accosted  him  with,  ^*  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Clennam  ?  I  hope  I  am  not  unwelcome  in  calling  to  see 
you." 

It  was  the  sprightly  young  Barnacle,  Ferdinand.  He 
looked  very  good-natured  and  prepossessing,  though  over- 
poweringly  gay  and  free,  in  contrast  with  the  squalid  prison. 

"You  are  surprised  to  see  me,  Mr.  Clennam,"  he  said, 
taking  the  seat  which  Clennam  ofl'ered  him. 

"  I  must  confess  to  being  much  surprised." 

"  Not  disagreeably,  I  hope  ?  '* 

**  By  no  means." 

*'  Thank  you.  Frankly,"  said  the  engaging  young  Bar- 
nacle, "  I  have  been  excessively  sorry  to  hear  that  you 
were  under  the  necessity  of  a  temporary  retirement  here, 
and  I  hope  (of  course  as  between  two  private  gentlemen) 
that  our  place  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Your  office?" 

"  Our  circumlocution  place." 

"  I  can  not  charge  any  part  of  my  reverses  upon  that  re- 
markable establishment." 

"  Upon  my  life,"  said  the  vivacious  young  Barnacle,  "  I 
am  heartily  glad  to  know  it.  It  is  quite  a  relief  to  me  to 
hear  you  say  it.  I  should  have  so  exceedingly  regretted  our 
place  having  had  any  thing  to  do  with  your  difficulties." 

Clennam  again  assured  him  that  he  absolved  it  of  the 
responsibility. 

"That's  right,"  said  Ferdinand.  "lam  very  happy  to 
hear  it.  I  was  rather  afraid  in  my  own  mind  that  we  might 
have  helped  to  floor  you,  because  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  is 
our  misfortune  to  do  that  kind  of  thing  now  and  then.  We 
don't  want  to  do  it  ;  but  if  men  will  be  graveled,  why — we 
can't  help  it." 

"  Without  giving  an  unqualified  assent  to  what  you  say," 
returned  Arthur,  gloomily,  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for 
your  interest  in  me." 


738  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  No,  but  really  !  Our  place  is,"  said  the  easy  young 
Barnacle,  *'  the  most  inoffensive  place  possible.  You'll  say 
we  are  a  humb*ug.  I  won't  say  we  are  not  ;  but  all  that  sort 
of  thing  is  intended  to  be,  and  must  be.     Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Clennam. 

"  You  don't  regard  it  from  the  right  point  of  view.  It  is 
the  point  of  view  that  is  the  essential  thing.  Regard  our 
place  from  the  point  of  view  that  we  only  ask  you  to  leave 
us  alone,  and  we  are  as  capital  a  department  as  you'll  find 
anywhere." 

"  Is  your  place  there  to  be  left  alone  ? "  asked  Clennam. 

"You  exactly  hit  it,"  returned  Ferdinand.  ^' It  is  there 
with  the  express  intention  that  every  thing  shall  be  left 
alone.  That  is  what  it  means.  That  is  what  it's  for.  No 
doubt  there's  a  certain  form  to  be  kept  up  that  it's  for 
something  else,  but  it's  only  a  form.  Why,  good  heaven, 
we  are  nothing  but  forms  !  Think  what  a  lot  of  our  forms 
you  have  gone  through.  And  you  have  never  got  any  nearer 
to  an  end  ?  " 

^*  Never,"  said  Clennam. 

"  Look  at  it  from  the  right  point  of  view,  and  there  you 
have  us — official  and  effectual.  It's  like  a  limited  game  of 
cricket.  A  field  of  outsiders  are  always  going  in  to  bowl  at 
the  public  service,  and  we  block  the  balls." 

Clennam  asked  what  became  of  the  bowlers  ?  The  airy 
young  Barnacle  replied  that  they  grew  tired,  got  dead  beat, 
got  lamed,  got  their  backs  broken,  died  off,  gave  it  up,  went 
in  for  other  games. 

"  And  this  occasions  me  to  congratulate  myself  again," 
he  pursued,  "  on  the  circumstance  that  our  place  has  had 
nothing  to  do  with  your  temporary  retirement.  It  very 
easily  might  have  had  a  hand  in  it  ;  because  it  is  unde- 
niable that  we  are  sometimes  a  most  unlucky  place,  in 
our  effects  upon  people  who  will  not  leave  us  alone.  Mr. 
Clennam,  I  am  quite  unreserved  with  you.  As  between 
yourself  and  myself,  I  know  I  may  be.  I  was  so,  when  I 
first  saw  you  making  the  mistake  of  not  leaving  us  alone  ; 
because  I  perceived  that  you  were  inexperienced  and  san- 
guine, and  had — I  hope  you'll  not  object  to  my  saying — some 
simplicity  ?  '* 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  Some  simplicity.  Therefore  I  felt  what  a  pity  it  was, 
and  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  hint  to  you  (which  really 
was  not  official,  but  I  never  am  official  when  I  can  help 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  739 

it)  something  to  the  effect  that  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't 
bother  myself.  However,  you  did  bother  yourself,  and 
you  have  since  bothered  yourself.  Now  don't  do  it  any 
more." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  have  the  opportunity,"  said  Clen- 
nam. 

**  Oh  yes,  you  are  !  You'll  leave  here.  Every  body  leaves 
here.  There  are  no  ends  of  ways  of  leaving  here.  Now,  don't 
come  back  to  us.  That  entreaty  is  the  second  object  of  my 
call.  Pray,  don't  come  back  to  us.  Upon  my  honor,"  said 
Ferdinand,  in  a  very  friendly  and  confiding  way,  "  I  shall  be 
greatly  vexed  if  you  don't  take  warning  by  the  past  and  keep 
away  from  us." 

'^  And  the  invention  ?  "  said  Clennam. 

*'  My  good  fellow,"  returned  Ferdinand,  ''if  you'll  excuse 
the  freedom  of  that  form  of  address,  nobody  wants  to  know 
of  the  invention,  and  nobody  cares  two-pence  half-penny 
about  it." 

"  Nobody  in  the  office,  that  is  to  say  ?  " 

^*  Nor  out  of  it.  Every  body  is  ready  to  dislike  and  ridi- 
cule any  invention.  You  have  no  idea  how  many  people  want 
to  be  left  alone.  You  have  no  idea  how  the  genius  of  the 
country  (overlook  the  parliamentary  nature  of  the  phrase, 
and  don't  be  bored  by  it)  tends  to  being  left  alone.  Believe 
me,  Mr.  Clennam,"  said  the  sprightly  young  Barnacle,  in  his 
pleasantest  manner,  ''  our  place  is  not  a  wicked  giant  to  be 
charged  at  full  tilt  ;  but  only  a  windmill  showing  you,  as  it 
grinds  immense  quantities  of  chaff,  which  way  the  country 
wind  blows." 

"  If  I  could  believe  that,"  said  Clennam,  **  it  would  be  a 
dismal  prospect  for  all  of  us." 

'*  Oh  !  Don't  say  so!"  returned  Ferdinand.  "It's  all 
right.  We  must  have  humbug,  we  all  like  humbug,  we  couldn't 
get  on  without  humbug.  A  little  humbug,  and  a  groove,  and 
every  thing  goes  on  admirably,  if  you  leave  it  alone." 

With  this  hopeful  confession  of  his  faith  as  the  head  of 
the  rising  Barnacles  who  were  born  of  woman  to  be  followed 
under  a  variety  of  watchwords  which  they  utterly  repudiated 
and  disbelieved,  Ferdinand  rose.  Nothing  could  be  more 
agreeable  than  his  frank  and  courteous  bearing,  or  adapted 
with  a  more  gentlemanly  instinct  to  the  circumstances  of  his 
visit. 

"  Is  it  fair  to  ask,"  he  said,  as  Clennam  gave  him  his  hand 
with  a  real  feeling  of  thankfulness  for  his  candor  and  good- 


740  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

humor,  "  whether  it  is  true  that  our  late  lamented  Merdle  Is 
the  cause  of  this  passing  inconvenience  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  many  he  has  ruined.     Yes." 

"  He  must  have  been  an  exceedingly  clever  fellow,"  said 
Ferdinand  Barnacle. 

Arthur,  not  being  in  the  mood  to  extol  the  memory  of  the 
deceased,  was  silent. 

"  A  consummate  rascal,  of  course,"  said  Ferdinand,  *'  but 
remarkably  clever  !  One  can  not  help  admiring  the  fellow. 
Must  have  been  such  a  master  of  humbug.  Knew  people  so 
well — got  over  them  so  completely — did  so  much  with 
them  !  " 

In  his  easy  way,  he  was  really  moved  to  genuine  admira- 
tion. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Arthur,  "that  he  and  his  dupes  may  be  a 
warning  to  people  not  to  have  so  much  done  with  them 
again." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Clennam,"  returned  Ferdinand,  laughing, 
"  have  you  really  such  a  verdant  hope  ?  The  next  man  who 
has  as  large  a  capacity  and  as  genuine  a  taste  for  swindling, 
will  succeed  as  well.  Pardon  me,  but  I  think  you  really  have 
no  idea  how  the  human  bees  will  swarm  to  the  beating  of  any 
old  tin  kettle  ;  in  that  fact  lies  the  complete  manual  of  gov- 
erning them.  When  they  can  be  got  to  believe  that  the 
kettle  is  made  of  the  precious  metals,  in  that  fact  lies  the 
whole  power  of  men  like  our  late  lamented.  No  doubt  there 
are  here  and  there,"  said  Ferdinand,  politely,  "  exceptional 
cases,  where  people  have  been  taken  in  for  what  appeared 
to  them  to  be  much  better  reasons  ;  and  I  need  not  go  far 
to  find  such  a  case  ;  but  they  don't  invalidate  the  rule. 
Good-day  !  I  hope  that  when  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you  next,  this  passing  cloud  will  have  given  place  to  sun- 
shine. Don't  come  a  step  beyond  the  door.  I  know  the 
way  out  perfectly.     Good-day  !  " 

With  those  words,  the  best  and  brightest  of  the  Barnacles 
went  down  stairs,  hummed  his  way  through  the  lodge, 
mounted  his  horse  in  the  front  court-yard,  and  rode  off  to 
keep  an  appointment  with  his  noble  kinsman  ;  who  wanted 
a  little  coaching  before  he  could  triumphantly  answer  cer- 
tain infidel  snobs,  who  were  going  to  question  the  nobs 
about  their  statesmanship. 

He  must  have  passed  Mr.  Rugg  on  his  way  out,  for,  a 
minute  or  two  afterward,  that  ruddy-headed  gentleman  shone 
in  at  the  door,  like  an  elderly  Phoebus. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  741 

*'  How  do  you  do  to-day,  sir  ?  "  said  Mr.  Rugg.  *'  Is  there 
any  little  thing  I  can  do  for  you  to-day,  sir  ?" 

"  No,  I  thank  you." 

Mr.  Rugg's  enjoyment  of  embarrassed  affairs  was  like  a 
housekeeper's  enjoyment  in  pickling  and  preserving,  or  a 
washerwoman's  enjoyment  of  a  heavy  wash,  or  a  dustman's 
enjoyment  of  an  overflowing  dust-bin,  or  any  other  profes- 
sional enjoyment  of  a  mess  in  the  way  of  business. 

''  I  shall  look  round  from  time  to  time,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg, 
cheerfully,  ''  to  see  whether  any  lingering  detainers  are  ac- 
cumulating at  the  gate.  They  have  fallen  in  pretty  thick, 
sir;  as  thick  as  we  could  have  expected." 

He  remarked  upqn  the  circumstance  as  if  it  were  matter 
of  congratulation:  rubbing  his  hands  briskly,  and  rolling  his 
head  a  little. 

**  As  thick,"  repeated  Mr.  Rugg,  "  as  we  could  reasonably 
have  expected.  Quite  a  shower-bath  of  'em.  I  don't  often 
intrude  upon  you,  now,  when  I  look  round,  because  I  know 
you  are  not  inclined  for  company,  and  that  if  you  wished  to 
see  me,  you  would  leave  word  in  the  lodge.  But  I  am  here 
pretty  well  every  day,  sir.  Would  this  be  an  unseasonable 
time,  sir,"  asked  Mr.  Rugg,  coaxingly,  "  for  me  to  offer  an 
observation  ?  " 

^' As  seasonable  a  time  as  any  other." 

"  Hum  !  Public  opinion,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  *'  has  been 
busy  with  you." 

''  I  don't  doubt  it." 

"  Might  it  not  be  advisable,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  more 
coaxingly  yet,  ^'  now  to  make,  at  last  and  after  all,  a  trifling 
concession  to  public  opinion  ?  We  all  do  it  in  one  way  or 
another.     The  fact  is,  we  must  do  it." 

"  I  can  not  set  myself  right  with  it,  Mr.  Rugg,  and  have  no 
business  to  expect  that  I.  ever  shall." 

"  Don't  say  that,  sir,  don't  say  that.  The  cost  of  being 
moved  to  the  Bench  is  almost  insignificant,  and  if  the  general 
feeling  is  strong  that  you  ought  to  be  there,  why — really " 

^'  I  thought  you  had  settled,  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  Arthur, 
^^  that  my  determination  to  remain  here  was  a  matter  of 
taste." 

**  Well,  sir,  well  !  But  is  it  good  taste,  is  it  good  taste  ? 
That's  the  question."  Mr.  Rugg  was  so  soothingly  persua- 
sive, as  to  be  quite  pathetic.  '*  I  was  almost  going  to  say,  is 
it  good  feeling  ?  This  is  an  extensive  affair  of  yours  ;  and 
your  remaining  here  where  a  man  can  come  for  a  pound  or 


742  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

two,  is  remarked  upon,  as  not  in  keeping.  It  is  7wt  in  keep- 
ing. I  can't  tell  you,  sir,  in  how  many  quarters  I  heard  it 
mentioned.  I  heard  comments  made  upon  it  last  night,  m 
a  parlor  frequented  by  what  I  should  call,  if  I  did  not  look 
in  there  now  and  then  myself,  the  best  legal  company — I 
heard,  there,  comments  on  it  that  I  was  sorry  to  hear.  They 
hurt  me,  on  your  account.  Again,  only  this  morning  at 
breakfast.  My  daughter  (but  a  woman,  you'll  say  :  yet  still 
with  a  feeling  for  these  things,  and  even  with  some  little  per- 
sonal experience,  as  the  plaintiff  in  Rugg  and  Bawkins)  was 
expressing  her  great  surprise  ;  her  great  surprise.  Now 
under  these  circumstances,  and  considering  that  none  of  us 
can  quite  set  ourselves  above  public  opinion,  wouldn't  a  tri- 
fling concession  to  that  opinion  be — come,  sir,"  said  Rugg, 
"  I  will  put  it  on  the  lowest  ground  of  argument,  and  say, 
amiable  ? " 

Arthur's  thoughts  had  once  more  wandered  away  to  Little 
Dorrit,  and  the  question  remained  unanswered. 

''  As  to  myself,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  hoping  that  his  elo- 
quence had  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  indecision,  ^^  it  is  a 
principle  of  mine  not  to  consider  myself  when  a  client's 
inclinations  are  in  the  scale.  But  knowing  your  considerate 
character  and  general  wish  to  oblige,  I  will  repeat  that  I 
should  prefer  your  being  in  the  Bench.  Your  case  has  made 
a  noise  ;  it  is  a  creditable  case  to  be  professionally  concerned 
in  ;  I  should  feel  on  a  better  standing  with  my  connection, 
if  you  went  to  the  Bench.  Don't  let  that  influence  you,  sir. 
I  merely  state  the  fact." 

So  errant  had  the  prisoner's  attention  already  grown  in 
solitude  and  dejection,  and  so  accustomed  had  it  become  to 
commune  with  only  one  silent  figure  within  the  ever-frown- 
ing walls,  that  Clennam  had  to  shake  off  a  kind  of  stupor 
before  he  could  look  at  Mr.  Rugg,  recall  the  thread  of  his 
talk,  and  hurriedly  say,  "  I  am  unchanged,  and  unchange- 
able, in  my  decision.  Pray,  let  it  be  ;  let  it  be  !  "  Mr. 
Rugg,  without  concealing  that  he  was  nettled  and  mortified, 
replied  : 

^'  Oh  !  Beyond  a  doubt,  sir.  I  have  traveled  out  of  the 
record,  sir,  I  am  aware,  in  putting  the  point  to  you.  But 
really,  when  I  heard  it  remarked  in  several  companies,  and 
in  very  good  company,  that  however  worthy  of  a  foreigner, 
it  is  not  worthy  of  the  spirit  of  an  Englishman  to  remain  in 
the  Marshalsea  when  the  glorious  liberties  of  his  island  home 
admit  of  his  removal  to  the  Bench,  I  thought  I  would  depart 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  743 

from  the  narrow  professional  line  marked  out  to  me,  and 
mention  it.  Personally,"  said  Mr.  Rugg,  *'  1  have  no  opinion 
on  the  topic." 

^'  That's  well,"  returned   Arthur. 

^'Oh  !  None  at  all,  sir  !  "  said  Mr.  Rugg.  "If  I  had,  I 
should  have  been  unwilling,  some  minutes  ago,  to  see  a  client 
of  mine  visited  in  this  place  by  a  gentleman  of  a  high  family 
riding  a  saddle-horse.  But  it  was  not  my  business.  If  I 
had,  I  might  have  wished  to  be  now  empowered  to  mention 
to  another  gentleman,  a  gentleman  of  military  exterior  at 
present  waiting  in  the  lodge,  that  my  client  had  never 
intended  to  remain  here,  and  was  on  the  eve  of  removal  to  a 
superior  abode.  But  my  course  as  a  professional  machine  is 
clear  ;  I  have  nothing  to  do  with.  it.  Is  it  your  good  pleas- 
ure to  see  the  gentleman,  sir  ?  " 

"  Who  is  waiting  to  see  n)e,  did  you  say  ?  " 

'^  I  did  take  that  unprofessional  liberty,  sir.  Hearing  that  I 
was  your  professional  adviser,  he  declined  to  interpose  before 
my  very  limited  function  was  performed.  Happily,"  said 
Mn  Rugg,  with  sarcasm,  "  I  did  not  so  far  travel  out  of  the 
record  as  to  ask  the  gentleman  for  his  name." 

'^  I  suppose  1  have  no  resource  but  to  see  him,"  sighed 
Clennam,  wearily. 

"  'l^hen  it  ts  your  good  pleasure,  sir  ? "  retorted  Rugg. 
"  Am  I  honored  by  your  instruction  to  mention  as  much  to 
the  gentleman,  as  I  pass  out  ?  I  am  ?  Thank  you,  sir.  I 
take  my  leave."     His  leave  he  took  accordingly,  in  dudgeon. 

The  gentleman  of  military  exterior  had  so  imperfectly 
awakened  Clennam's  curiosity,  in  the  existing  state  of  his 
mind,  that  a  half-forgetfulness  of  such  a  visitor's  having 
been  referred  to,  was  already  creeping  over  it  as  a  part  of 
the  somber  veil  which  almost  always  dimmed  it  now,  when 
a  heavy  footstep  on  the  stairs  aroused  him.  It  appeared  to 
ascend  them,  not  very  promptly  or  spontaneously,  yet  with 
a  display  of  stride  and  clatter  meant  to  be  insulting.  As  it 
paused  for  a  moment  on  the  landing  outside  his  door,  he 
could  not  recall  his  association  with  the  peculiarity  of  its 
sound,  though  he  thought  he  had  one.  Only  a  moment  was 
given  him  for  consideration.  His  door  was  immediately 
swung  open  by  a  thump,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  the  miss- 
ing Blandois,  the  cause  of  many  anxieties. 

"Salve,  fellow  jail-bird!"  said  he.  "You  want  me,  it 
seems.     Here  I  am  !  " 

Before  Arthur  could  speak  to  him  in  his  indignant  wonder. 


744  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Cavalletto  followed  him  into  the  room.  Mr.  Pancks  followed 
Cavalletto.  Neither  of  the  two  had  been  there,  since  its 
present  occupant  had  had  possession  of  it.  Mr.  Pancks, 
breathing  hard,  sidled  near  the  window,  put  his  hat  on  the 
ground,  stirred  his  hair  up  with  both  hands,  and  folded 
his  arms,  like  a  man  who  had  come  to  a  pause  in  a  hard 
day's  work.  Mr.  Baptist,  never  taking  his  eye  from  his 
dreaded  chum  of  old,  softly  sat  down  on  the  floor  with 
his  back  against  the  door  and  one  of  his  ankles  in  each 
hand  ;  resuming  the  at:fitude  (except  that  it  was  now  express- 
ive of  unwinking  watchfulness)  in  which  he  had  sat  before 
the  same  man  in  the  deeper  shade  of  another  prison,  one 
hot  morning,  at  Marseilles. 

^*  I  have  it  on  the  witnessing  of  these  two  madmen,"  said 
Monsieur  Blandois,  otherwise  Lagnier,  otherwise  Rigaud, 
*^  that  you  want  me,  brother-bird.     Here  I  am  !  " 

Glancing  round  contemptuously  at  the  bedstead,  which 
was  turned  up  by  day,  he  leaned  his  back  against  it  as  a 
resting-place,  without  removing  his  hat  from  his  head,  and 
stood  defiantly  lounging  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  You  villain  of  ill-omen  !  "  said  Arthur.  ^'  You  have 
purposely  cast  a  dreadful  suspicion  uponmy  mother's  house. 
Why  have  you  done  it  ?  What  prompted  you  to  the  devilish 
invention  ?  " 

Monsieur  Rigaud,  after  frowning  at  him  for  a  moment, 
laughed.  '^  Hear  this  noble  gentleman  !  Listen,  all  the 
world,  to  this  creature  of  virtue  !  But  take  care,  take  care. 
It  is  possible,  my  friend,  that  your  ardor  is  a  little  com- 
promising.    Holy  blue  !     It  is  possible." 

"  Signor  !  "  interposed  Cavalletto,  also  addressing  Arthur  ; 
**  for  to  commence,  hear  me  !  I  received  your  instructions 
to  find  him,  Rigaud  ;  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  truth." 

**  I  go  consequentementally,"  it  would  have  given  Mrs. 
Plornish  great  concern  if  she  could  have  been  persuaded 
that  his  occasional  lengthening  of  an  adverb  in  this  way, 
was  the  chief  fault  of  his  English,  "  first  among  my 
countrymen.  I  ask  them  what  news  in  Londra,  of  foreigners 
arrived.  Then  I  go  among  the  French.  Then  I  go  among 
the  Germans.  They  all  tell  me.  The  great  part  of  us  know 
well  the  other,  and  they  all  tell  me.  But ! — no  person  can  tell 
me  nothing  of  him,  Rigaud.  Fifteen  times,"  said  Cavalletto, 
thrice  throwing  out  his  left  hand  with  all  his  fingers  spread, 
and  doing  it  so  rapidly  that  the  sense  of  sight  could  hardly 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  745 

follow  the  action,  "  I  ask  of  him  in  every  place  where  go 
the  foreigners  ;  and  fifteen  times,"  repeating  the  same  swift 
performance,  '^  they  know  nothing.     But  ! " 

At  this  significant  Italian  rest  on  the  word  ^*  But,"  his 
back-handed  shake  of  his  right  forefinger  came  into  play  ; 
a  very  little,  and  very  cautiously. 

*^  But  ! — after  a  long  time  when  I  had  not  been  able  to 
find  that  he  is  here  in  Londra,  some  one  tells  me  of  a  soldier 
with  white  hair — hey  ? — not  hair  like  this  that  he  carries — 
white — who  lives  retired  secrettementally,  in  a  certain  place. 
But  ! — "  with  another  rest  upon  the  word,  "  who  sometimes 
in  the  after-dinner,  walks,  and  smokes.  It  is  necessary,  as 
they  say  in  Italy  (and  as  they  know,  poor  people),  to  have 
patience.  I  have  patience.  I  ask  where  is  this  certain  place. 
One  believes  it  is  here,  one  believes  it  is  there.  Eh  well  1 
It  is  not  here,  it  is  not  there.  I  wait,  patientissamentally. 
At  last  I  find  it.  Then  I  watch  ;  then  I  hide  until  he  walks 
and  smokes.  He  is  a  soldier  with  gray  hair — but  ! — "  a  very 
decided  rest  indeed,  and  a  very  vigorous  play  from  side  to 
side  of  the  back-handed  forefinger — ^^  he  is  also  this  man 
that  you  see." 

It  was  noticeable,  that,  in  his  old  habit  of  submission  to 
one  who  had  been  at  the  trouble  of  asserting  superiority  over 
him,  he  even  then  bestowed  upon  Rigaud  a  confused  bend 
of  his  head,  after  thus  pointing  him  out. 

"  Eh  well,  signor  !  "  he  cried  in  conclusion,  addressing 
Arthur  again.  '^  I  waited  for  a  good  opportunity.  I  writed 
some  words  to  Signor  Banco,"  an  air  of  novelty  came  over 
Mr.  Pancks  with  this  designation,  '*  to  come  and  help.  I 
showed  him,  Rigaud,  at  his  window,  to  Signor  Banco,  who 
was  often  the  spy  in  the  day.  I  slept  at  night  near  the  door 
of  the  house.  At  last  we  entered,  only  this  to-day,  and  now 
you  see  him  !  As  he  would  not  come  up  in  presence  of  the 
illustrious  advocate,"  such  was  Mr.  Baptist's  honorable  men- 
tion of  Mr.  Rugg,  "  we  waited  down  below  there,  together, 
and  Signor  Banco  guarded  the  street." 

At  the  close  of  this  recital,  Arthur  turned  his  eyes  upon 
the  impudent  and  wicked  face.  As  it  met  his,  the  nose  came 
down  over  the  mustache,  and  the  mustache  went  up  under 
the  nose.  When  nose  and  mustache  had  settled  into  their 
places  again.  Monsieur  Rigaud  loudly  snapped  his  fingers 
half-a-dozen  times  ;  bending  forward  to  jerk  the  snaps  at 
Arthur,  as  if  they  were  palpable  missiles  which  he  jerked 
into  his  face. 


746  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Now,  philosopher  .*  "  said  Rigaud.  "  What  do  you  want 
with  me  ?  " 

'^  I  want  to  know,"  returned  Arthur,  without  disguising 
his  abhorrence,  ''  how  you  dare  direct  a  suspicion  of  murder 
against  my  mother's  house  ?  " 

**Dare?"  cried  Rigaud.  "  Ho,  ho  !  Hear  him  !  Dare  ! 
Is  it  dare  ?  By  heaven,  my  small  boy,  but  you  are  a  little 
imprudent  !  " 

"  I  want  that  suspicion  to  be  cleared  away,"  said  Arthur. 
"  You  shall  be  taken  there  and  be  publicly  seen.  I  want  to 
know,  moreover,  what  business  you  had  there,  when  I  had  a 
burning  desire  to  fling  you  down  stairs.  Don't  frown  at  me, 
man  !  I  have  seen  enough  of  you  to  know  that  you  are  a 
bully,  and  coward.  I  need  no  revival  of  my  spirits  from  the 
effects  of  this  wretched  place,  to  tell  you  so  plain  a  fact,  and 
one  that  you  know  so  well." 

White  to  the  lips,  Rigaud  stroked  his  mustache,  muttering, 
"  By  heaven,  my  small  boy,  but  you  are  a  little  compromis- 
ing of  my  lady  your  respectable  mother" — and  seemed  for 
a  minute  undecided  how  to  act.  His  indecision  was  soon 
gone.  He  sat  himself  down  with  a  threatening  swagger,  and 
said  : 

"  Give  me  a  bottle  of  wine.  You  can  buy  wine  here. 
Send  one  of  your  madmen  to  get  me  a  bottle  of  wine.  I 
won't  talk  to  you  without  wine.     Come.     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

*^  Fetch  him  what  he  wants,  Cavalletto,"  said  Arthur 
scornfully,  producing  the  money. 

*^  Contraband  beast,"  added  Rigaud,  **  bring  Port-wine! 
I'll  drink  nothing  but  Porto-Porto." 

The  contraband  beast,  however,  assuring  all  present,  with 
his  significant  finger,  that  he  peremptorily  declined  to  leave 
his  post  at  the  door,  Signor  Panco  offered  his  services.  He 
soon  returned  with  the  bottle  of  wine:  which,  according  to 
the  custom  of  the  place,  originated  in  a  scarcity  of  cork- 
screws among  the  collegians  (in  common  with  a  scarcity  of 
much  else),  was  already  opened  for  use. 

*'  Madman  !     A  large  glass,"  said  Rigaud. 

Signor  Panco  put  a  tumbler  before  him;  not  without  a 
visible  conflict  of  feeling  on  the  question  of  throwing  it  at 
his  head. 

"  Haha  !  "  boasted  Rigaud.  ^*  Once  a  gentleman,  and  al- 
ways a  gentleman.  A  gentleman  from  the  beginning,  and  a 
gentleman  to  the  end.     What  the  devil  !     A  gentleman  must 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  747 

be  waited  on  I  hope  ?  It*s  part  of  my  character  to  oe 
waited  on  !  " 

He  half  filled  the  tumbler  as  he  said  it,  and  drank  off 
the  contents  when  he  had  done  saying  it. 

"  Hah  !  "  smacking  his  lips.  **  Not  a  very  old  prisoner 
that !  I  judge  by  your  looks,  brave  sir,  that  imprisonment 
will  subdue  your  blood  much  sooner  than  it  softens  this  hot 
wine.  You  are  mellowing — losing  body  and  color,  already. 
I  salute  you  !  " 

He  tossed  off  another  half  glass:  holding  it  up  both  be- 
fore and  afterward,  so  as  to  display  his  small,  white  hand. 

^'  To  business,"  he  then  continued.  ''  'I'o  conversation. 
You  have  shown  yourself  more  free  of  speech  than  body, 
sir." 

"  I  have  used  the  freedom  of  telling  you,  what  you  know 
yourself  to  be.  You  know  yourself,  as  we  all  know  you,  to 
be  far  worse  than  that." 

"  Add,  always  a  gentleman,  and  it's  no  matter.  Except 
in  that  regard,  we  are  all  alike.  For  example  :  you  couldn't 
for  your  life  be  a  gentleman  ;  I  couldn't  for  my  life  be  other- 
wise. How  great  the  difference  !  Let  us  go  on.  Words, 
sir,  never  influence  the  course  of  the  cards,  or  the  course  of 
the  dice.  Do  you  know  that  ?  You  do  ?  I  also  play  a 
game,  and  words  are  without  power  over  it." 

Now  that  he  was  confronted  with  Cavelletto,  and  knew 
that  his  story  was  known — whatever  thin  disguise  he  had 
worn,  he  dropped  ;  and  faced  it  out  with  a  bare  face,  as  the 
infamous  wretch  he  was. 

^'  No,  my  son,"  he  resumed,  with  a  snap  of  his  fingers.  "  I 
play  my  game  to  the  end  in  spite  of  words  ;  and  death  of 
me  body  and  death  of  my  soul  !  I'll  win  it.  You  want  to 
know  why  I  played  this  little  trick  that  you  have  inter- 
rupted ?  Know  then  that  I  had,  and  that  I  have — do  you 
understand  me  ?  have — a  commodity  to  sell  to  my  lady  your 
respectable  mother.  I  described  my  precious  commodity, 
and  fixed  my  price.  Touching  the  bargain,  your  admirable 
mother  was  a  little  too  calm,  too  stolid,  too  immovable  and 
statue-like.  In  fine,  your  admirable  mother  vexed  me.  To 
make  variety  in  my  position,  and  to  amuse  myself — what  !  a 
gentleman  must  be  amused  at  somebody's  expense  ! — I  con- 
ceived the  happy  idea  of  disappearing.  An  idea,  see  you, 
that  your  characteristic  mother  and  my  Flintwinch  would 
have  been  well  enough  pleased  to  execute.  Ah  !  Bah,  bah, 
bah,  don't  look  as  from   high   to   low  at   me  !     I  repeat  it. 


748  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Well  enough  pleased,  excessively  enchanted,  and  with  all 
their  hearts  ravished.     How  strongly  will  you  have  it  ?" 

He  threw  out  the  lees  of  his  glass  on  the  ground,  so  that 
they  nearly  spattered  Cavalletto.  This  seemed  to  draw 
his  attention  to  him  anew.  He  set  down  his  glass  arid 
said  : 

*^  I'll  not  fill  it.  What  I  I  am  born  to  be  served.  Come 
then,  you  Cavalletto,  and  fill  !  " 

The  little  man  looked  at  Clennam,  whose  eyes  were  occu- 
pied with  Rigaud,  and,  seeing  no  prohibition,  got  up  from 
the  ground  and  poured  out  from  the  bottle  into  the  glass. 
The  blending,  as  he  did  so,  of  his  old  submission  with  a 
sense  of  something  humorous  ;  the  striving  of  that  with  a 
certain  smoldering  ferocity,  which  might  have  flashed  fire 
in  an  instant  (as  the  born  gentleman  seemed  to  think,  for  he 
had  a  wary  eye  upon  him)  ;  and  the  easy  yielding  of  all,  to 
a  good-natured,  careless,  predominant  propensity  to  sit  down 
on  the  ground  again  ;  formed  a  very  remarkable  combina- 
tion of  character. 

^'  This  happy  idea,  brave  sir,"  Rigaud  resumed  after  drink- 
ing, "  was  a  happy  idea  for  several  reasons.  It  amused  me, 
it  worried  your  dear  mamma  and  my  Flintwinch,  it  caused 
you  agonies  (my  terms  for  a  lesson  in  politeness  toward  a 
gentleman),  and  it  suggested  to  all  the  amiable  persons  in- 
terested that  your  entirely  devoted  is  a  man  to  fear.  By 
heaven,  he  is  a  man  to  fear  !  Beyond  this  ;  it  might  have 
restored  her  wit  to  my  lady  your  mother — might,  under  the 
pressing  little  suspicion  your  wisdom  has  recognized,  have 
persuaded  her  at  last  to  announce,  covertly,  in  the  journals, 
that  the  difficulties  of  a  certain  contract  would  be  removed 
by  the  appearance  of  a  certain  important  party  to  it.  Per- 
haps yes,  perhaps  no.  But  that  you  have  interrupted. 
Now,  what  is  it  you  say  ?     What  is  it  you  want  ? " 

Never  had  Clennam  felt  more  acutely  that  he  was  a  pris- 
oner in  bonds,  than  when  he  saw  this  man  before  him,  and 
could  not  accompany  him  to  his  mother's  house.  All  the 
undiscernible  difficulties  and  dangers  he  had  ever  feared 
were  closing  in,  when  he  could  not  stir  hand  or  foot. 

"  Perhaps,  my  friend,  philosopher,  man  of  virtue,  imbecile, 
what  you  will  ;  perhaps,"  said  Rigaud,  pausing  in  his  drink 
to  look  out  of  his  glass  with  his  horrible  smile,  "  you  would 
have  done  better  to  leave  me  alone  ?" 

*'  No  !  At  least,"  said  Clennam,  ^'  you  are  known  to  be 
alive  and  unharmed.     At  least  you  can  not  escape  from  these 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  749 

two  witnesses  ;  and  they  can  produce  you  before  any  public 
authorities,  or  before  hundreds  of  people  !  " 

'VBut  will  not  produce  me  before  one,"  said  Rigaud,  snap- 
ping his  fingers  again  with  an  air  of  triumphant  menace. 
"  To  the  devil  with  your  witnesses  !  To  the  devil  with  your 
produced  !  To  the  devil  with  yourself  !  What  !  Do  I  know 
what  I  know,  for  that  ?  Have  I  my  commodity  on  sale,  for 
that  ?  Bah,  poor  debtor  !  You  have  interrupted  my  little 
project.  Let  it  pass.  How  then  ?  What  remains  ?  To 
you,  nothing  ;  to  me,  all.  Produce  me  ?  Is  that  what  you 
want  ?  I  will  produce  myself,  only  too  quickly.  Contra- 
bandist !     Give  me  pen,  ink,  and  paper." 

Cavalletto  got  up  again  as  before,  and  laid  them  before 
him  in  his  former  manner.  Rigaud,  after  some  villainous 
thinking  and  smiling,  wrote  and  read  aloud  as  follows  : 

*'  To  Mrs.  Clennam. 
"  Wait  answer. 

"  Prison  of  the  Marshalsea, 
"  At  the  apartment  of  your  son, 

"  Dear  Madam, 

**  I  am  in  despair  to  be  informed  to-day  by  our 
prisoner  here  (who  has  had  the  goodness  to  employ  spies  to 
seek  me,  living  for  politic  reasons  in  retirement),  that  you 
have  had  fears  for  my  safety. 

"  Reassure  yourself,  dear  madam.  I  am  well,  I  am  strong 
and  constant. 

**  With  the  greatest  impatience  I  should  fly  to  your  house, 
but  that  I  foresee  it  to  be. possible,  under  the  circumstances, 
that  you  will  not  yet  have  quite  definitely  arranged  the  little 
proposition  I  have  had  the  honor  to  submit  to  you.  I  name 
one  week  from  this  day,  for  a  last  final  visit  on  my  part,  when 
you  will  unconditionally  accept  it  or  reject  it,  with  its  train 
of  consequences. 

"  I  suppress  my  ardor  to  embrace  you  and  achieve  this 
interesting  business,  in  order  that  you  may  have  leisure  to 
adjust  its  dei;ails  to  our  perfect  mutual  satisfaction. 

"  In  the  meanwhile,  it  is  not  too  much  to  propose  (our 
prisoner  having  deranged  my  housekeeping),  that  my 
expenses  of  lodging  and  nourishment  at  an  hotel  shall  be 
paid  by  you. 

"  Receive,  dear  madam,  the  assurance  of  my  highest  and 
most  distinguished  consideration, 

*^  Rigaud  Blandois. 


750  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  A  thousand  friendships  to  that  dear  Flintwinch. 
"I  kiss  the  hands  of  Madame  F." 

When  he  had  finished  this  epistle,  Rigaud  folded  it  and 
tossed  it  with  a  flourish  at  Clennam's  feet.  *^  Hola  you  ! 
Apropos  of  producing,  let  somebody  produce  that  at  its  ad- 
dress, and  produce  the  answer  here." 

'*  Cavalletto,"  said  Arthur.  *'  Will  you  take  this  fellow's 
letter  ?  " 

But  Cavalletto's  significant  finger  again  expressing  that 
his  post  was  at  the  door  to  keep  watch  over  Rigaud,  now  he 
had  found  him  with  so  much  trouble,  and  that  the  duty  of  his 
post  was  to  sit  on  the  floor  backed  up  by  the  door,  looking  at 
Rigaud  and  holding  his  own  ankles — Signor  Panco  once 
more  volunteered.  His  services  being  accepted,  Cavalletto 
suffered  the  door  to  open  barely  wide  enough  to  admit  of  his 
squeezing  himself  out,  and  immediately  shut  it  on  him. 

^*  Touch  me  with  a  finger,  touch  me  with  an  epithet,  ques- 
tion my  superiority  as  I  sit  here  drinking  my  wine  at  my 
pleasure,"  said  Rigaud,  *'  and  I  follow  the  letter  and  cancel 
my  week's  grace.  Vou  wanted  me  ?  You  have  got  me  ! 
How  do  you  like  me  ?  " 

'^  You  know,"  returned  Clennam,  with  a  bitter  sense  of 
his  helplessness,  *'  that  when  I  sought  you,  I  was  not  a 
prisoner." 

"  To  the  devil  with  you  and  your  prison,"  retorted  Rigaud, 
leisurely,  as  he  took  from  his  pocket  a  case  containing  the 
materials  for  making  cigarettes,  and  employed  his  facile 
hands  in  folding  a  few  for  present  use  ;  ^*  I  care  for  neither 
of  you.     Contrabandist  !     A  light." 

Again  Cavalletto  got  up,  and  gave  him  what  he  wanted. 
There  had  been  something  dreadful  in  the  noiseless  skill  of 
his  cold,  white  hands,  with  the  fingers  lithely  twisting  about 
and  twining  one  over  another  like  serpents.  Clennam  could 
not  prevent  himself  from  shuddering  inwardly,  as  if  he  had 
been  looking  on  at  a  nest  of  those  creatures. 

''  Hola,  pig  !  "  cried  Rigaud,  with  a  noisy  stimulating  cry, 
as  if  Cavalletto  were  an  Italian  horse  or  mule.  *'  What  ! 
The  infernal  old  jail  was  a  respectable  one  to  this.  There 
was  dignity  in  the  bars  and  stones  of  that  place.  It  was 
a  prison  for  men.  But  this  ?  Bah  !  A  hospital  for 
imbeciles  !  " 

He  smoked  his  cigarette  out,  with  his  ugly  smile  so  fixed 
upon  his  face,  that  he  looked  as  though  he  were  smoking  with 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  751 

his  drooping  beak  of  a  nose,  rather  than  his  mouth  ;  like  a 
fancy  in  a  weird  picture.  When  he  had  lighted  a  second 
cigarette  at  the  still  burning  end  of  the  first,  he  said  to 
Clennam  : 

**  One  must  pass  the  time  in  the  madman's  absence.  One 
must  talk.  One  can't  drink  strong  wine  all  day  long,  or  I 
would  have  another  bottle.  She's  handsome,  sir.  Though 
not  exactly  to  my  taste,  still,  by  the  thunder  and  the  light- 
ning !  handsome.     I  felicitate  you  on  your  admiration." 

"  I  neither  know  nor  ask,"  said  Clennam,  "  of  whom  you 
speak." 

"  Delia  bella  Gowana,  sir,  as  they  say  in  Italy,  of  the 
Gowan,  the  fair  Gowan." 

*'  Of  whose  husband  you  were  the — follower,  I  think  ?  " 

*'  Sir  ?     Follower  ?     You  are  insolent.     The  friend." 

"  Do  you  sell  all  your  friends  ? " 

Rigaud  took  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth,  and  eyed  him 
with  a  momentary  revelation  of  surprise.  But  he  put  it 
between  his  lips  again,  as  he  answered  with  coolness  : 

"  I  sell  any  thing  that  commands  a  price.  How  do  your 
lawyers  live,  your  politicians,  your  intriguers,  your  men  of 
the  exchange  ?  How  do  you  live  ?  How  do  you  come  here  ? 
Have  you  sold  no  friend  ?  Lady  of  mine  !  I  rather  think, 
yes  !  " 

Clennam  turned  away  from  him  toward  the  window,  and 
sat  looking  out  at  the  wall. 

"  Effectively,  sir,"  said  Rigaud,  "  society  sells  itself  and 
sells  me  ;  and  I  sell  society.  I  perceive  you  have  acquaint- 
ance with  another  lady.  Also  handsome.  A  strong  spirit. 
Let  us  see.     How  do  they  call  her  ?     Wade." 

He  received  no  answer,  but  could  easily  discern  that  he 
had  hit  the  mark. 

'^  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "  that  handsome  lady  and  strong  spirit 
addresses  me  in  the  street,  and  I  am  not  insensible.  I  re- 
spond. That  handsome  lady  and  strong  spirit  does  me  the 
favor  to  remark,  in  full  confidence,  ^  I  have  my  curiosity,  and 
I  have  my  chagrins.  You  are  not  more  than  ordinarily  hon- 
orable, perhaps  ? '  I  announce  myself,  *  Madame,  a  gentle- 
man from  the  birth,  and  a  gentleman  to  the  death  ;  but  not 
more  than  ordinarily  honorable.  I  despise  such  a  weak  fan- 
tasy.' Thereupon  she  is  pleased  to  compliment.  ^  The  dif- 
ference between  you  and  the  rest  is,'  she  answers,  '  that  you 
say  so.'  For,  she  knows  society.  I  accept  her  congratula- 
tions with  gallantry  and  politeness.     Politeness  and  little  gal- 


752  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

lantries  are  inseparable  from  my  character.  She  then  makes 
a  proposition,  which  is,  in  effect,  that  she  has  seen  us  much 
together  ;  that  it  appears  to  her  that  I  am  for  the  passing 
time  the  cat  of  the  house,  the  friend  of  the  family  ;  that  her 
curiosity  and  her  chagrins  awaken  the  fancy  to  be  acquainted 
with  their  movements,  to  know  the  manner  of  their  life,  how 
the  fair  Gowana  is  beloved,  how  the  fair  Gowana  is  cher- 
ished, and  so  on.  She  is  not  rich,  but  offers  such  and  such 
little  recompenses  for  the  little  cares  and  derangements  of 
such  services  ;  and  I  graciously — to  do  every  thing  graciously 
is  a  part  of  my  character — consent  to  accept  them.  Oh 
yes  !  So  goes  the  world.     It  is  the  mode." 

Though  Clennam's  back  was  turned  while  he  spoke,  and 
thenceforth  to  the  end  of  the  interview,  he  kept  those  glitter- 
ing eyes  of  his  that  were  too  near  together,  upon  him,  and 
evidently  saw  in  the  very  carriage  of  the  head,  as  he  passed, 
with  his  braggart  recklessness,  from  clause  to  clause  of  what 
he  said,  that  he  was  saying  nothing  which  Clennam  did  not 
already  know. 

"  Whoof  !  The  fair  Gowana  !  "  he  said,  lighting  a  third 
cigarette  with  a  sound  as  if  his  lightest  breath  could  blow  her 
away.  ^'  Charming,  but  imprudent  !  For  it  was  not  w^ell  of 
the  fair  Gowana  to  make  mysteries  of  letters  from  old  lovers, 
in  her  bedchamber  on  the  mountain,  that  her  husband  might 
not  see  them.  No,  no.  That  was  not  well.  Whoof  !  The 
Gowana  was  mistaken  there." 

"I  earnestly  hope,"  cried  Arthur  aloud,  ^' that  Pancks 
may  not  be  long  gone,  for  this  man's  presence  pollutes  the 
room." 

•^'  Ah  !  But  he'll  flourish  here,  and  everywhere,*'  said 
Rigaud,  with  an  exulting  look  and  snap  of  his  fingers.  *'  He 
always  has  ;  he  always  will  !  "  Stretching  his  body  out  on 
the  only  three  chairs  in  the  room  besides  that  on  which  Clen- 
nam sat,  he  sang,  smiting  himself  on  the  breast  as  the  gallant 
personage  of  the  song  : 

"  Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 

Compagnon  de  la  Majolaine  ! 
Who  passes  by  this  road  so  late  ? 
Always  gay  !  " 

Sing  the  refrain,  pig  I  You  could  sing  it  once,  in  another  jail. 
Sing  it  !  Or,  by  every  saint  who  was  stoned  to  death,  Til  be 
affronted  and  compromising  ;  and  then  some  people  who  are 
not  dead  yet,  had  better  have  been  stoned  along  with  them! 

*'  Of  all  the  king's  knights  'tis  the  flower, 
Compagnon  de  la  Majolaine  1 
Of  all  the  king's  knights  'tis  the  flower. 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  753 

Partly  in  his  old  habit  of  submission,  partly  because  not 
doing  it  might  injure  his  benefactor,  and  partly  because  he 
would  as  soon  do  it  as  any  thing  else,  Cavalletto  took  up  the 
refrain  this  time.  Rigaud  laughed,  and  fell  to  smoking  with 
his  eyes  shut. 

Possibly  another  quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed  before  Mr. 
Pancks's  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs,  but  the  interval 
seemed  to  Clennam  insupportably  long.  His  step  was  at- 
tended by  another  step  ;  and  when  Cavalletto  opened  the 
door,  he  admitted  Mr.  Pancks  and  Mr.  Flintwinch.  The 
latter  was  no  sooner  visible,  than  Rigaud  rushed  at  him  and 
embraced  him  boisterously. 

*^  How  do  you  find  yourself,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  as 
soon  as  he  could  disengage  himself,  which  he  struggled  to 
do  with  very  little  ceremony.  ^^  Thank  you,"  no  ;  I  don't 
want  any  more."  This  was  in  reference  to  another  menace 
of  affection  from  his  recovered  friend.  *'  Well,  Arthur. 
You  remember  what  I  said  to  you  about  sleeping  dogs  and 
missing  ones.     It's  come  true,  you  see." 

He  was  as  imperturbable  as  ever,  to  all  appearance,  and 
nodded  his  head  in  a  moralizing  way  as  he  looked  round  the 
room. 

''  And  this  is  the  Marshalsea  prison  for  debt  !  "  said  Mr. 
Flintwinch.  ''  Hah  !  you  have  brought  your  pigs  to  a  very 
indifferent  market,  Arthur." 

If  Arthur  had  patience,  Rigaud  had  not.  He  took  his 
little  Flintwinch,  with  fierce  playfulness  by  the  two  lapels  of 
his  coat,  and  cried  : 

*'  To  the  devil  with  the  market,  to  the  devil  with  the 
pigs,  and  to  the  devil  with  the  pig-driver  !  Now  !  Give  me 
the  answer  to  my  letter." 

If  you  can  make  it  convenient  to  let  go  a  moment,  sir," 
returned  Mr.  Flintwinch,  ''  I'll-first  hand  Mr.  Arthur  a  little 
note  I  have  for  him." 

He  did  so.  It  was  in  his  mother's  maimed  writing,  on  a 
slip  of  paper,  and  contained  only  these  words  : 

"  I  hope  it  is  enough  that  you  have  ruined  yourself.  Rest 
contented  without  more  ruin.  Jeremiah  Flintwinch  is 
my  messenger  and  representative.  Your  affectionate 
M.  C." 

Clennam  read  this  twice,  in  silence,  and  then  tore  it  to 
pieces.  Rigaud  in  the  meanwhile  stepped  into  a  chair,  and 
sat  himself  on  the  back,  with  his  feet  upon  the  seat. 

"  Now^  Beau  Flintwinch,"  he  said,  when  he  had  closely 


754  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

watched  the  note   to  its  destruction,  "  the  answer  to   my 
letter  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Clennam  did  not  write,  Mr.  Blandois,  her  hands 
being  cramped,  and  she  thinking  it  as  well  to  send  it  verbally 
by  me."  Mr.  Flintwinch  screwed  this  out  of  himself,  unwill- 
ingly and  rustily.  *'  She  sends  her  compliments,  and  says 
she  doesn't  on  the  whole  wish  to  term  you  unreasonable, 
and  that  she  agrees.  But  without  prejudicing  the  appoint- 
ment that  stands  for  this  day  week." 

Monsieur  Rigaud,  after  indulging  in  a  fit  of  laughter,  de- 
scended from  his  throne,  saying,  "  Good  !  I  go  to  seek  an 
hotel  !  '*  But  there  his  eyes  encountered  Cavalletto,  who 
was  still  at  his  post. 

^'  Come,  pig,"  he  added.  "  I  have  had  you  for  a  follower 
against  my  will  ;  now,  I'll  have  you  against  yours.  I  tell 
you,  my  little  reptiles,  I  am  born  to  be  served.  I  demand 
the  service  of  this  contrabandist  as  my  domestic  until 
this  day  week." 

In  answer  to  Cavalletto's  look  of  inquiry,  Clennam  made 
him  a  sign  to  go  ;  but  he  added  aloud,  ^'  unless  you  are 
afraid  of  him."  Cavalletto  replied  with  a  very  emphatic 
finger-negative.  "  No,  master,  I  am  not  afraid  of  him,  when 
I  no  more  keep  it  secrettementally  that  he  was  once  my 
comrade."  Rigaud  took  no  notice  of  either  remark,  until  he 
had  lighted  his  last  cigarette  and  was  quite  ready  for  walk- 
ing. 

''  Afraid  of  him,"  he  said  then,  looking  round  upon  them 
all.  "  Whoof  !  My  children,  my  babies,  my  little  dolls,  you 
are  all  afraid  of  him.  You  give  him  his  bottle  of  wine  here  ; 
you  give  him  meat,  drink,  and  lodging  there  ;  you  dare  not 
touch  him  with  a  finger  or  an  epithet.  No.  It  is  his  char- 
acter to  triumph  !     Whoof  ! 

• 

**  Of  all  the  king's  knights  he's   the  flower, 
And  he^s  always  gay  !  " 

With  this  adaptation  of  the  refrain  to  himself,  he  stalked 
out  of  the  room,  closely  followed  by  Cavalletto,  whom  per- 
haps he  had  pressed  into  his  service  because  he  tolerably 
well  knew  it  would  not  be  easy  to  get  rid  of  him.  Mr.  Flint- 
winch,  after  scraping  his  chin,  and  looking  about  with 
caustic  disparagement  of  the  pig-market,  nodded  to  Arthur 
and  followed.  Mr.  Pancks,  still  penitent  and  depressed,  fol- 
lowed too  ;  after  receiving  with  great  attention  a  secret  word 
or  two  of  instructions  from  Arthur,  and  whispering  back 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  755 

that  he  would  see  this  affair  out,  and  stand  by  it  to  the  end. 
The  prisoner,  with  the  feeling  that  he  was  more  despised, 
more  scorned  and  repudiated,  more  helpless,  altogether  more 
miserable  and  fallen,  than  before,  was  left  alone  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A    PLEA    IN    THE    MARSHALSEA. 

Haggard  anxiety  and  remorse  are  bad  companions  to  be 
barred  up  with.  Brooding  all  day,  and  resting  very  little 
indeed  at  night,  will  not  arm  a  man  against  misery.  Next 
morning,  Clennam  felt  that  his  health  was  sinking,  as  his 
spirits  had  already  sunk,  and  that  the  weight  under  which  he 
bent  was  bearing  him  down. 

Night  after  night,  he  had  risen  from  his  bed  of  wretched- 
ness at  twelve  or  one  o'clock,  and  had  sat  at  his  window 
watching  the  sickly  lamps  in  the  yard,  and  looking  upward 
for  the  first  wan  trace  of  day,  hours  before  it  was  possible 
that  the  sky  could  show  it  to  him.  Now,  when  the  night 
came,  he  could  not  even  persuade  himself  to  undress. 

For  a  burning  restlessness  set  in,  an  agonized  impatience 
of  the  prison,  and  a  conviction  that  he  was  going  to  break 
his  heart  and  die  there,  which  caused  him  indescribable  suf- 
fering. His  dread  and  hatred  of  the  place  became  so  intense 
that  he  felt  it  a  labor  to  draw  a  breath  in  it.  The  sensation 
of  being  stifled  sometimes  so  overpowered  him,  that  he 
would  stand  at  the  window  holding  his  throat  and  gasping. 
At  the  same  time  a  longing  for  other  air,  and  a  yearning  to 
be  beyond  the  blind  blank  wall,  made  him  feel  as  if  he  must 
go  mad  with  the  ardor  of  the  desire. 

Many  other  prisoners  had  had  experience  of  this  condition 
before  him,  and  its  violence  and  continuity  had  worn  them- 
selves out  in  their  cases,  as  they  did  in  his.  Two  nights  and 
a  day  exhausted  it.  It  came  back  by  fits,  but  those  grew 
fainter  and  returned  at  lengthening  intervals.  A  desolate- 
calm  succeeded  ;  and  the  middle  of  the  week  found  him  set- 
tled down  in  the  despondency  of  low,  slow  fever. 

With  Cavalletto  and  Pancks  away,  he  had  no  visitors  to 
fear  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Plornish.  His  anxiety,  in  reference 
to  that  worthy  pair,  was  that  they  should  not  come  near  him; 
for,  in  the  morbid  state  of  his  nerves,  he  sought  to  be  left 
alone,  and  spared  the  being  seen  so  subdued  and  weak.     He 


756  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

wrote  a  note  to  Mrs.  Plornish  representing  himself  as  occu- 
pied with  his  affairs,  and  bound  by  the  necessity  of  devoting 
himself  to  them,  to  remain  for  a  time  even  without  the  pleas- 
ant interruption  of  a  sight  of  her  kind  face.  As  to  young 
John,  who  looked  in  daily  at  a  certain  hour,  when  the  turn- 
keys were  relieved,  to  ask  if  he  could  do  any  thing  for  him  ; 
he  always  made  a  pretense  of  being  engaged  in  writing,  and 
to  answer  cheerfully  in  the  negative.  The  subject  of  their 
only  long  conversation  had  never  been  revived  between 
them.  Through  all  these  changes  of  unhappiness,  it  had 
never  lost  its  hold  on  Clennam's  mind. 

The  sixth  day  of  the  appointed  week  was  a  moist,  hot, 
misty  day.  It  seemed  as  though  the  prison's  poverty,  and 
shabbiness,  and  dirt,  were  growing  in  the  sultry  atmosphere. 
With  an  aching  head  and  a  wxary  heart,  Clennam  had 
watched  the  miserable  night  out,  listening  to  the  fall  of  rain, 
on  the  yard  pavement,  thinking  of  its  softer  fall  upon  the 
country  earth.  A  blurred  circle  of  yellow  haze  had  risen  up 
in  the  sky  in  lieu  of  sun,  and  he  had  watched  the  path  it 
put  upon  his  wall,  like  a  bit  of  the  prison's  raggedness.  He 
had  heard  the  gates  open  ;  and  the  badly  shod  feet  that 
waited  outside  shuffle  in  ;  and  the  sweeping,  and  pumping, 
and  moving  about,  begin,  which  commenced  the  prison 
morning.  So  ill  and  famt,  that  he  was  obliged  to  rest  many 
times  in  the  process  of  getting  himself  washed,  he  had  at  length 
crept  to  his  chair  by  the  open  window.  In  it  he  sat  dozing, 
while  the  old  woman  who  arranged  his  room  went  through 
her  morning's  work. 

Light  of  head  with  want  of  sleep  and  want  of  food  (his 
appetite,  and  even  his  sense  of  taste,  having  forsaken  him), 
he  had  been  two  or  three  times  conscious,  in  the  night,  of 
going  astray.  He  had  heard  fragments  of  tunes  and  songs, 
in  the  warm  wind,  which  he  knew  had  no  existence.  Now 
that  he  had  begun  to  doze  in  exhaustion,  he  heard  them 
again  ;  and  voices  seemed  to  address  him,  and  he  answered, 
and  started. 

Dozing  and  dreaming,  without  the  power  of  reckoning 
time,  so  that  a  minute  might  have  been  an  hour  and  an  hour 
a  minute,  some  abiding  impression  of  a  garden  stole  over 
him — a  garden  of  flowers,  with  a  damp  warm  wind  gently 
stirring  their  scents.  It  required  such  a  painful  effort  to  lift 
his  head  for  the  purpose  of  inquiring  into  this,  or  inquiring 
into  any  thing,  that  the  impression  appeared  to  have  become 
quite  an  old  and  importunate  one  when  he  looked  round. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  757 

Beside  the  tea-cup  on  his  table  he  saw  then,  a  blooming 
nosegay  :  a  wonderful  handful  of  the  choicest  and  naost 
lovely  flowers. 

Nothing  had  ever  appeared  so  beautiful  in  his  sight.  He 
took  them  up  and  inhaled  their  fragrance,  and  he  lifted  them 
to  his  hot  head,  and  he  put  them  down  and  opened  his  parched 
hands  to  them,  as  cold  hands  are  opened  to  receive  the 
cheering  of  a  fire.  It  was  not  until  he  had  delighted  in  them 
for  some  time,  that  he  wondered  who  had  sent  them  ;  and 
opened  his  door  to  ask  the  woman  who  must  have  put  them 
there,  how  they  had  come  into  her  hands.  But  she  was 
gone,  and  seemed  to  have  been  long  gone  ;  for  the  tea  she 
had  left  for  him  on  the  table  was  cold.  He  tried  to  drink 
some,  but  could  not  bear  the  odor  of  it  :  so  he  crept  back  to 
his  chair  by  the  open  window,  and  put  the  flowers  on  the 
little  round  table  of  old. 

When  the  first  faintness  consequent  on  having  moved 
about  had  left  him,  he  subsided  into  his  former  state.  One 
of  the  night-tunes  was  playing  in  the  wind,  when  the  door  of 
his  room  seemed  to  open  to  a  light  touch,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause,  a  quiet  figure  seemed  to  stand  there,  with  a 
black  mantle  on  it.  It  seemed  to  draw  the  mantle  off  and 
drop  it  on  the  ground,  and  then  it  seemed  to  be  his  Little 
Dorrit  in  her  old,  worn  dress.  It  seemed  to  tremble,  and  to 
clasp  its  hands,  and  to  smile,  and  to  burst  into  tears. 

He  roused  himself,  and  cried  out.  And  then  he  saw,  in 
the  loving,  pitying,  sorrowing,  dear  face,  as  in  a  mirror,  how 
changed  he  was  ;  and  she  came  toward  him  ;  and  with  her 
hands  laid  on  his  breast  to  keep  him  in  his  chair,  and  with 
her  knees  upon  the  floor  at  his  feet,  and  with  her  lips  raised 
up  to  kiss  him,  and  with  her  tears  dropping  on  him  as  the 
rain  from  heaven  had  dropped  upon  the  flowers,  Little  Dor- 
rit, a  living  presence,  called  him  by  his  name. 

^^  Oh,  my  best  friend  !  Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  don't  let  me 
see  you  weep  !  Unless  you  weep  with  pleasure  to  see  me.  I 
hope  you  do.     Your  own  poor  child  come  back  !  '* 

So  faithful,  tender,  and  unspoiled  by  fortune.  In  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  in  the  light  of  her  eyes,  in  the  touch  of 
her  hands,  so  angelically  comforting  and  true  ! 

As  he  embraced  her,  she  said  to  him,  *'  They  never  told 
me  you  were  ill,"  and  drawing  an  arm  softly  round  his  neck, 
laid  his  head  upon  her  bosom,  put  a  hand  upon  his  head,  and 
resting  her  cheek  upon  that  hand,  nursed  him  as  lovingly, 
and  God  knows  as  innocently,  as  she  had  nursed  her  father 


758  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

in  that  room  when  she  had  been  but  a  baby,  needing  all  the 
care  from  others  that  she  took  of  them. 

When  he  could  speak,  he  said,  *'  Is  it  possible  that  you 
have  come  to  me  ?     And  in  this  dress  ?  " 

"  I  hoped  you  would  like  me  better  in  this  dress  than  any 
other.  I  have  always  kept  it  by  me,  to  remind  me  :  though  I 
wanted  no  reminding.  I  am  not  alone,  you  see.  I  have 
brought  an  old  friend  with  me." 

Looking  round,  he  saw  Maggy  in  her  big  cap  which  had 
been  long  abandoned,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm  as  in  the  by- 
gone days,  chuckling  rapturously. 

"  It  was  only  yesterday  evening  that  I  came  to  London 
with  my  brother.  I  sent  round  to  Mrs.  Plornish  almost  as 
soon  as  we  arrived,  that  I  might  hear  of  you  and  let  you  know 
I  had  come.  Then  I  heard  that  you  were  here.  Did  you 
happen  to  think  of  me  in  the  night  ?  I  almost  believe  you 
must  have  thought  of  me  a  little.  I  thought  of  you  so  anx- 
iously, and  it  appeared  so  long  to  morning." 

*'  I  have  thought  of  you "  he  hesitated  what  to  call  her. 

She  perceived  it  in  an  instant. 

*'  You  have  not  spoken  to  me  by  my  right  name  yet.  You 
know  what  my  right  name  always  is  with  you." 

**  I  have  thought  of  you,  Little  Dorrit,  every  day,  every 
hour,  every  minute,  since  I  have  been  here." 

**  Have  you  ?     Have  you  ?  " 

He  saw  the  bright  delight  of  her  face,  and  the  flush  that 
kindled  in  it,  with  a  feeling  of  shame.  He,  a  broken,  bank- 
rupt, sick,  dishonored  prisoner. 

*'  I  was  here,  before  the  gates  were  opened,  but  I  was 
afraid  to  come  straight  to  you.  I  should  have  done  you 
more  harm  than  good,  at  first;  for  the  prison  was  so  familiar 
and  yet  so  strange,  and  it  brought  back  so  many  remem- 
brances of  my  poor  father,  and  of  you  too,  that  at  first  it 
overpowered  me.  But  we  went  to  Mr.  Chivery  before  we 
came  to  the  gate,  and  he  brought  us  in,  and  got  John's  room 
for  us — my  poor  old  room,  you  know — and  we  waited  there  a 
little.  I  brought  the  flowers  to  the  door,  but  you  didn't 
hear  me." 

She  looked  something  more  womanly  than  when  she  had 
gone  away,  and  the  ripening  touch  of  the  Italian  sun  was 
visible  upon  her  face.  But  otherv/ise  she  was  quite  un- 
changed. The  same  deep,  timid  earnestness  that  he  had 
always  seen  in  her,  and  never  without  emotion,  he  saw  still. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  759 

If  it  had  a  new  meaning  that  smote  him  to  the  heart,  the 
change  was  in  his  perception,  not  in  her. 

She  took  off  her  old  bonnet,  hung  it  in  the  old  place,  and 
noiselessly  began,  with  Maggy's  help,  to  make  his  room  as 
fresh  and  neat  as  it  could  be  made,  and  to  sprinkle  it  with 
a  pleasant-smelling  water.  When  that  was  done,  the  basket, 
which  was  filled  with  grapes  and  other  fruit,  was  unpacked, 
and  all  its  contents  were  quietly  put  away.  When  that  was 
done,  a  moment's  whisper  dispatched  Maggy  to  dispatch 
somebody  else  to  fill  the  basket  again  ;  which  soon  came 
back  replenished  with  new  stores,  from  which  a  present 
provision  of  cooling  drink  and  jelly,  and  a  prospective  sup- 
ply of  roast  chicken  and  wine  and  water,  were  the  first 
extracts.  These  various  arrangements  completed,  she  took  out 
her  old  needle-case  to  make  him  a  curtain  for  his  window  ; 
and  thus,  with  a  quiet  reigning  in  the  room,  that  seemed  to 
diffuse  itself  through  the  else  noisy  prison,  he  found  himself 
composed  in  his  chair,  with  Little  Dorrit  working  at  his  side. 

To  see  the  modest  head  again  bent  down  over  its  task, 
and  the  nimble  fingers  busy  at  their  old  work — though  she 
was  not  so  absorbed  in  it  but  that  her  compassionate  eyes 
were  often  raised  to  his  face,  and,  when  they  drooped  again, 
had  tears  in  them — to  be  so  consoled  and  comforted,  and  to 
believe  that  all  the  devotion  of  this  great  nature  was  turned 
to  him  in  his  adversity,  to  pour  out  its  inexhaustible  wealth 
of  goodness  upon  him,  did  not  steady  Clennam's  trembling 
voice  or  hand,  or  strengthen  him  in  his  weakness.  Yet,  it 
inspired  him  with  an  inward  fortitude  that  rose  with  his  love. 
And  hov/  dearly  he  loved  her,  now,  what  words  can  tell  ! 

As  they  sat  side  by  side,  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  the 
shadow  fell  like  light  upon  him.  She  would  not  let  him 
speak  much,  and  he  lay  back  in  his  chair,  looking  at  her. 
Now  and  again  she  would  rise  and  give  him  the  glass  that  he 
might  drink,  or  would  smooth  the  resting-place  of  his  head  ; 
then  she  would  gently  resume  her  seat  by  him,  and  bend 
over  her  work  again. 

The  shadow  moved  with  the  sun,  but  she  never  moved 
from  his  side,  except  to  wait  upon  him.  The  sun  went 
down  and  she  was  still  there.  She  had  done  her  work  now, 
and  her  hand,  faltering  on  the  arm  of  his  chair,  since  its  last 
tending  of  him,  was  hesitating  there  yet.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  it,  and  it  clasped  him  with  a  trembling  supplication. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  I  must  say  something  to  you  before 
I  go.     I  have  put  it  off  from  hour  to  hour,  but  1  must  say  it." 


76<j  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  I,  too,  dear  Little  Dorrit.  I  have  put  off  what  I  must 
say." 

She  nervously  moved  her  hand  toward  his  lips  as  .if  to 
stop  him  ;  then  it  dropped,  trembling,  into  its  former  place. 

"  I  am  not  going  abroad  again.  My  brother  is,  but  I  am 
not.  He  was  always  attached  to  me,  and  he  is  so  grateful  to 
me  now — so  much  too  grateful,  for  it  is  only  because  I  hap- 
pened to  be  with  him  in  his  illness — that  he  says  1  shall  be 
free  to  stay  where  I  like  best,  and  to  do  what  I  like  best. 
He  only  wishes  me  to  be  happy,  he  says." 

There  was  one  bright  star  shining  in  the  sky.  She  looked 
up  at  it  while  she  spoke,  as  if  it  were  the  fervent  purpose  of 
her  own  heart  shining  above  her. 

**  You  will  understand,  I  dare  say,  without  my  telling  you, 
that  my  brother  has  come  home  to  find  my  dear  father's  will 
and  to  take  possession  of  his  property.  He  says,  if  there 
is  a  will,  he  is  sure  I  shall  be  left  rich ;  and  if  there  is  none, 
that  he  will  make  me  so." 

He  would  have  spoken,  but  she  put  up  her  trembling  hand 
again,  and  he  stopped. 

^^  I  have  no  use  for  money  ;  I  have  no  wish  for  it.  It 
would  be  of  no  value  at  all  to  me,  but  for  your  sake.  I 
could  not  be  rich,  and  you  here.  I  must  always  be  much 
worse  than  poor,  with  you  distressed.  Will  you  let  me  lend 
you  all  I  have  ?  Will  you  let  me  give  it  you  ?  Will  you  let 
me  show  you  that  I  never  have  forgotten,  that  I  never  can 
forget,  your  protection  of  me  when  this  was  my  home  ? 
Dear  Mr.  Clennam,  make  me  of  all  the  world  the  happiest, 
by  saying  yes  !  Make  me  as  happy  as  I  can  be  in  leaving 
you  here,  by  saying  nothing  to-night,  and  letting  me  go  away 
with  the  hope  that  you  will  think  of  it  kindly  ;  and  that  for 
my  sake — not  for  yours,  for  mine,  for  nobody's  but  mine  ! — 
you  will  give  me  the  greatest  joy  I  can  experience  on  earth, 
the  joy  of  knowing  that  I  have  been  serviceable  to  you,  and 
that  I  have  paid  some  little  of  the  great  debt  of  my  affection 
and  gratitude.  I  can't  say  what  I  wish  to  say.  I  can't  visit 
you  here,  where  I  have  lived  so  long  ;  I  can't  think  of  you 
here,  where  I  have  seen  so  much,  and  be  as  calm  and  com- 
forting as  I  ought.  My  tears  will  make  their  way.  I  can 
not  keep  them  back.  But  pray,  pray,  pray,  do  not  turn 
from  your  Little  Dorrit  now,  in  your  affliction  !  Pray,  pray, 
pray,  I  beg  you  and  implore  you  with  all  my  grieving  heart, 
my  friend — my  dear  ! — take  all  I  have,  and  make  it  a  blessing 
to  me  !  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  761 

The  star  had  shone  on  her  face  until  now,  when  her  face 
sank  upon  his  hand  and  her  own. 

It  had  grown  darker  when  he  raised  her  in  his  encircHng 
arm,  and  softly  answered  her. 

''  No,  darling  Little  Dorrit.  No,  my  child.  I  must  not 
hear  of  such  a  sacrifice.  Liberty  and  hope  would  be  so 
dear,  bought  at  such  a  price,  that  I  could  never  support  their 
weight,  never  bear  the  reproach  of  possessing  them.  But 
with  what  ardent  thankfulness  and  love  I  say  this,  I  may 
call  heaven  to  witness  !  " 

"  And  yet  you  will  not  let  me  be  faithful  to  you  in  your 
affliction  ?  " 

"  Say,  dearest  Little  Dorrit,  and  yet  I  will  try  to  be  faith- 
ful to  you.  If,  in  the  by-gone  days  when  this  was  your 
home  and  when  this  was  your  dress,  I  had  understood  my- 
self (I  speak  only  of  myself)  better,  and  had  read  the  secrets 
of  my  own  breast  more  distinctly  ;  if,  through  my  reserve 
and  self-mistrust,  I  had  discerned  a  light  that  I  see  brightly 
now  when  it  has  passed  far  away,  and  my  weak  footsteps  can 
never  overtake  it  ;  if  I  had  then  known,  and  told  you  that  I 
loved  and  honored  you,  not  as  the  poor  child  I  used  to  call 
you,  but  as  a  woman  whose  true  hand  would  raise  me  high 
above  myself,  and  make  me  a  far  happier  and  better  man  ;  if 
I  had  so  used  the  opportunity  there  is  no  recalling — as  I 
wish  I  had,  oh,  I  wish  I  had  ! — and  if  something  had  kept 
us  apart  then,  when  I  was  moderately  thriving,  and  when  you 
were  poor  ;  I  might  have  met  your  noble  offer  of  your  for- 
tune, dearest  girl,  with  other  words  than  these,  and  still  have 
blushed  to  touch  it.  But,  as  it  is,  I  must  never  touch  it, 
never  !  " 

She  besought  him,  more  pathetically  and  earnestly,  with 
her  little  supplicatory  hand,  than  she  could  have  done  in 
any  words. 

"  I  am  disgraced  enough,  my  Little  Dorrit.  I  must  not 
descend  so  low  as  that,  and  carry  you — so  dear,  so  generous, 
so  good — down  with  me.  God  bless  you,  God  reward  you  ! 
It  is  past." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  as  if  she  had  been  his  daughter. 

"  Always  so  much  older,  so  much  rougher,  and  so  much 
less  worthy,  even  what  I  was  must  be  dismissed  by  both  of 
us,  and  you  must  see  me  only  as  I  am.  I  put  this  parting 
kiss  upon  your  cheek,  my  child — who  might  have  been  more 
near  to  me,  who  never  could  have  been  more  dear — a  ruined 
man  far  removed   from   you,  forever  separated  from  you. 


762  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

whose  course  is  run,  while  yours  is  but  beginning.  I  have 
not  the  courage  to  ask  to  be  forgotten  by  you  in  my  humili- 
ation, but  I  ask  to  be  remembered  only  as  I  am." 

The  bell  began  to  ring,  warning  visitors  to  depart.  He 
took  her  mantle  from  the  wall,  and  tenderly  wrapped  it 
round  her. 

"  One  other  word,  my  Little  Dorrit.  A  hard  one  to  me, 
but  it  is  a  necessary  one.  The  time  when  you  and  this 
prison  had  any  thing  in  common  has  long  gone  by.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

*'  Oh  !  you  will  never  say  to  me,"  she  cried,  weeping  bit- 
terly, and  holding  up  her  clasped  hands  in  entreaty,  "  that  I 
am  not  to  come  back  any  more  !  You  will  surely  not  desert 
me  so  !  " 

*'  I  would  say  it  if  I  could  ;  but  I  have  not  the  courage 
quite  to  shut  out  this  dear  face,  and  abandon  all  hope  of  its 
return.  But  do  not  come  soon,  do  not  come  often  !  This 
is  now  a  tainted  place,  and  1  well  know  the  taint  of  it  clings 
to  me.  You  belong  to  much  brighter  and  better  scenes. 
You  are  not  to  look  back  here,  my  Little  Dorrit;  you  are  to 
look  away  to  very  different  and  much  happier  paths. 
Again,  God  bless  you  in  them  !     God  reward  you  !  " 

Maggy,  who  had  fallen  into  very  low  spirits,  here  cried, 
''Oh,  get  him  into  a  hospital;  do  get  him  into  a  hospital, 
mother  !  He'll  never  look  like  hisself  again,  if  he  ain't  got 
into  a  hospital.  And  then  the  little  woman  as  was  always  a 
spinning  at  her  wheel,  she  can  go  to  the  cupboard  with  the 
princess  and  say,  what  do  you  keep  the  chicking  there  for  ? 
and  then  they  can  take  it  out  and  give  it  to  him,  and  then 
all  be  happy  !  " 

The  interruption  was  seasonable,  for  the  bell  had  nearly 
rung  itself  out.  Again  tenderly  wrapping  her  mantle  about 
her,  and  taking  her  on  his  arm  (though,  but  for  her  visit,  he 
was  almost  too  weak  to  walk),  Arthur  led  Little  Dorrit 
down  stairs.  She  was  the  last  visitor  to  pass  out  at  the 
lodge,  and  the  gate  jarred  heavily  and  hopelessly  upon 
her. 

With  the  funeral  clang  that  it  sounded  into  Arthur's  heart, 
his  sense  of  weakness  returned.  It  was  a  toilsome  journey 
up  stairs  to  his  room,  and  he  re-entered  its  dark  solitary 
precincts,  in  unutterable  misery. 

When  it  was  almost  midnigl>t,  and  the  prison  had  long 
been  quiet,  a  cautious  creak  came  up  the  stairs,  and  a  cau- 
tious  tap  of  a  key  was  given   at  his  dopr.     It  was  young 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  763 

John.  He  glided  in,  in  his  stockings,  and  held  the  door 
closed,  while  he  spoke  in  a  whisper. 

^'  It's  against  all  rules,  but  I  don't  mind.  I  was  deter- 
mined to  come  through,  and  come  to  you." 

*'  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing's  the  matter,  sir.  I  was  waiting  in  the  court-yard 
for  Miss  Dorrit  when  she  came  out.  I  thought  you'd  like 
some  one  to  see  that  she  was  safe." 

'*  Thank  you,  thank  you  !     You  took  her  home,  John  ? " 

"  I  saw  her  to  her  hotel.  The  same  that  Mr.  Dorrit  was 
at.  Miss  Dorrit  walked  all  the  way,  and  talked  to  me  so 
kind  it  quite  knocked  me  over.  Why  do  you  think  she 
walked  instead  of  riding?" 

**  I  don't  know,  John." 

"  To  talk  about  you.  She  said  to  me,  *  John,  you  was  al- 
ways honorable,  and  if  you'll  promise  me  that  you  will  take 
care  of  him  and  never  let  him  want  for  help  and  comfort 
when  I  am  not  there,  my  mind  will  be  at  rest  so  far.'  I 
promised  her.  And  I'll  stand  by  you,"  said  John  Chivery, 
"  forever  !  " 

Clennam,  much  affected,  stretched  out  his  hand  to  this 
honest  spirit. 

"Before  I  take  it,"  said  John,  looking  at  it,  without  com- 
ing from  the  door,  "  guess  what  message  Miss  Dorrit  gave 
me." 

Clennam  shook  his  head. 

"  ^  Tell  him  ',"  repeated  John,  in  a  distinct,  through  quiver- 
ing voice,  "  *  that  his  Little  Dorrit  sent  him  her  undying  love.' 
Now  it's  delivered.     Have  I  been  honorable,  sir  ?  " 

"  Very,  very  !  " 

*'  Will  you  tell  Miss  Dorrit,  I've  been  honorable,  sir  ?  " 

''  I  will,  indeed." 

"  There's  my  hand,  sir,"  said  John,  "and  I'll  stand  by  you 
forever  !  " 

After  a  hearty  squeeze,  he  disappeared  with  the  same 
cautious  creak  upon  the  stair,  crept  shoeless  over  the  pave- 
ment of  the  yard,  and  locking  the  gates  behind  him,  passed 
out  into  the  front  where  he  had  left  his  shoes.  If  the  same 
way  had  been  paved  with  burning  plowshares,  it  is  not  at 
all  improbable  that  John  would  have  traversed  it  with  the 
same  devotion,  for  the  same  purpose. 


764  LITTLE  DORRIT. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

CLOSING    IN.  ' 

The  last  day  of  the  appointed  week  touched  the  bars  o{ 
the  Marshalsea  gate.  Black,  all  night,  since  the  gate  had 
clashed  upon  Little  Dorrit,  its  iron  straps  were  turned  by  the 
early-glowing  sun  into  strips  of  gold.  For  aslant  across  the 
city,  over  its  jumbled  roofs,  and  through  the  open  tracery 
of  its  church  towers,  struck  the  long  bright  rays,  bars  of  the 
prison  of  this  lower  world. 

Throughout  the  day,  the  old  house  within  the  gateway  re- 
mained untroubled  by  any  visitors.  But  when  the  sun  was 
low,  three  men  turned  in  at  the  gateway  and  made  for  the 
dilapidated  house. 

Rigaud  was  the  first,  and  walked  by  himself,  smoking. 
Mr.  Baptist  was  the  second,  and  jogged  close  after  him,  look- 
ing at  no  other  object.  Mr.  Pancks  was  the  third,  and  car- 
ried his  hat  under  his  arm  for  the  liberation  of  his  restive 
hair  ;  the  weather  being  extremely  hot.  They  all  came  to- 
gether at  the  door-steps. 

"  You  pair  of  madmen  !  "  said  Rigaud,  facing  about. 
"  Don't  go  yet  !  " 

^'  We  don't  mean  to,"  said  Mr.  Pancks. 

Giving  him  a  dark  glance  in  acknowledgment  of  his  an- 
swer, Rigaud  knocked  loudly.  He  had  charged  himself  with 
drink,  for  the  playing  out  of  his  game,  and  was  impatient  to 
begin.  He  had  hardly  finished  one  long  resounding  knock, 
when  he  turned  to  the  knocker  again  and  began  another. 
That  was  not  yet  finished,  when  Jeremiah  Flintwinch  opened 
the  door,  and  they  all  clanked  into  the  stone  hall.  Rigaud, 
thrusting  Mr.  Flintwinch  aside,  proceeded  straight  up  stairs. 
His  two  attendants  followed  him,  Mr.  Flintwinch  followed 
them,  and  they  all  came  trooping  into  Mrs.  Clennam's  quiet 
room.  It  was  in  its  usual  state  ;  except  that  one  of  the  win- 
dows was  wide  open,  and  Affery  sat  on  its  old-fashioned  win- 
dow-seat, mending  a  stocking.  The  usual  articles  were  on  the 
little  table  ;  the  usual  deadened  fire  was  in  the  grate  ;  the  bed 
had  its  usual  pall  upon  it  ;  and  the  mistress  of  all  sat  on  her 
black  bier-like  sofa,  propped  up  by  her  black  angular  bolster 
that  was  like  the  headsman's  block. 

Yet  there  was  a  nameless  air  of  preparation  in  the  room, 
as  if  it  were  strung  up  for  an  occasion.    From  what  the  room 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  765 

derived  it — every  one  of  its  small  variety  of  objects  being  in 
the  fixed  spot  it  had  occu[)ied  for  years — no  one  could  have 
said  without  looking  attentively  at  its  mistress,  and  that,  too, 
with  a  previous  knowledge  of  her  face.  Although  her  un- 
changing black  dress  was  in  every  plait  precisely  as  of  old, 
and  her  unchanging  attitude  was  rigidly  preserved,  a  very 
slight  additional  setting  of  her  features  and  contraction  of 
her  gloomy  forehead  was  so  powerfully  marked,  that  it 
marked  every  thing  about  her. 

^'  Who  are  these  ? "  she  said,  wonderingly,  as  the  two 
attendants  entered.     "  What  do  these  people  want  here  ?  " 

"  Who  are  these,  dear  madame,  is  it  ?  "  returned  Rigaud. 
"  Faith,  they  are  friends  of  your  son  the  prisoner.  And 
what  do  they  want  here,  is  it  ?  Death,  madame,  1  don't 
know.     You  will  do  well  to  ask  them." 

"You  know  you  told  us,  at  the  door,  not  to  go  yet,"  said 
Pancks. 

"  And  you  know  you  told  me,  at  the  door,  you  didn't 
mean  to  go,"  retorted  Rigaud.  ^^  In  a  word,  madame,  per- 
mit me  to  present  two  spies  of  the  prisoner's — madmen,  but 
spies.  If  you  wish  them  to  remain  here  during  our  little 
conversation,  say  the  word.     It  is  nothing  to  me." 

"  Why  should  I  wish  them  to  remain  here  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Clennam.     "  What  have  I  to  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  Then,  dearest  madame,"  said  Rigaud,-  throwing  himself 
into  an  arm-chair  so  heavily  that  the  old  room  trembled, 
"  you  will  do  well  to  dismiss  them.  It  is  your  affair.  They 
are  not  my  spies,  not  7ny  rascals." 

"  Hark  !  You  Pancks,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  bending  her 
brows  upon  him  angrily,  "  you  Casby's  clerk  !  Attend  to 
your  employer's  business  and  your  own.  Go.  And  take 
that  other  man  with  you." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Pancks,  "  I  am  glad 
to  say  I  see  no  objection  to  our  both  retiring.  We  have 
done  all  we  undertook  to  do  for  Mr.  Clennam.  His  constant 
anxiety  has  been  (and  it  grew  worse  upon  him  when  he 
became  a  prisoner),  that  this  agreeable  gentleman  should  be 
brought  back  here,  to  the  place  from  which  he  slipped  away 
Here  he  is — brought  back.  And  I  will  say,"  added  Mr. 
Pancks,  "  to  his  ill-looking  face,  that  in  my  opinion  the 
world  would  be  no  worse  for  his  slipping  out  of  it  altogether.'" 

"  Your  opinion  is  not  asked,"  answered  Mrs.  Clennam 
"Go." 

"  I  am  sorry  not  to  leave  you  in  better  company,  ma*am/ 


766  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

said  Pancks  ;  "  and  sorry,  too,  that  Mr.  Clennam  can't  be 
present.     It's  my  fault,  that  is." 

**  You  mean  his  own,"  she  returned. 

"  No,  I  mean  mine,  ma'am,"  said  Pancks,  **  for  it  was  my 
misfortune  to  lead  him  into  a  ruinous  investment."  (Mr. 
Pancks  still  clung  to  that  word,  and  never  said  speculation.) 
*'  Though  I  can  prove  by  figures,"  added  Mr.  Pancks, 
with  an  anxious  countenance,  "  that  it  ought  to  have  been  a 
good  investment.  1  have  gone  over  it  since  it  failed,  every 
day  of  my  life,  and  it  comes  out — regarded  as  a  question  of 
figures — triumphant.  The  present  is  not  a  time  or  place," 
Mr.  Pancks  pursued,  with  a  longing  glance  into  his  hat, 
where  he  kept  his  calculations,  ^'  for  entering  upon  the 
figures;  but  the  figures  are  not  to  be  disputed.  Mr.  Clennam 
ought  to  have  been  at  this  moment  in  his  carriage  and  pair, 
and  I  ought  to  have  been  worth  from  three  to  five  thousand 
pound." 

Mr.  Pancks  put  his  hair  erect  with  a  general  aspect  of  con- 
fidence, that  could  hardly  have  been  surpassed  if  he  had  had 
the  amount  in  his  pocket.  These  incontrovertible  figures 
had  been  the  occupation  of  every  moment  of  his  leisure 
since  he  had  lost  his  money,  and  were  destined  to  afford  him 
consolation  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

"However,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  *' enough  of  that.  Altro, 
old  boy,  you  have  seen  the  figures,  and  you  know  how  they 
come  out."  Mr.  Baptist,  who  had  not  the  slightest  arithmet- 
ical power  of  compensating  himself  in  this  way,  nodded, 
with  a  fine  display  of  bright  teeth. 

At  whom  Mr.  Flintwinch  had  been  looking,  and  to  whom 
he  then  said  : 

"Oh  !  It's  you,  is  it?  I  thought  I  remembered  your 
face,  but  I  wasn't  certain  till  I  saw  your  teeth.  Ah  !  yes,  to 
be  sure.  It  was  this  officious  refugee,"  said  Jeremiah  to 
Mrs.  Clennam,  "  who  came  knocking  at  the  door,  on  the 
night  when  Arthur  and  Chatterbox  were  here,  and  who 
asked  me  a  whole  catechism  of  questions  about  Mr. 
Blandois." 

"  It  is  true,"  Mr.  Baptist  cheerfully  admitted.  "  And  be- 
hold him,  padrone  !    I  have  found  him  consequentementally." 

"  I  shouldn't  have  objected,"  returned  Mr.  Flintwinch, 
"  to  your  having  broken  your  neck  consequentementally." 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  whose  eye  had  often 
stealthily  wandered  to  the  window-seat,  and  the  stocking  that 
was  being  mended  there.     "  I've  only  one  other  word  to  say 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  767 

« 

before  I  go.  If  Mr.  Clennam  was  here — but  unfortunately, 
though  he  has  so  far  got  the  better  of  this  fine  gentleman  as 
to  return  him  to  this  place  against  his  will,  he  is  ill  and  in 
prison — ill  and  in  prisvjn,  poor  fellow — if  he  was  here,"  said 
Mr.  Pancks,  taking  one  step  aside  toward  the  window- seat, 
and  laying  his  right  hand  upon  the  stocking  ;  '*  he  would  say, 
*  Affery,  tell  your  dreams  ! '  " 

Mr.  Pancks  held  up  his  right  forefinger  between  his  nose 
and  the  stocking,  with  a  ghostly  air  of  warning,  turned, 
steamed  out,  and  towed  Mr.  Baptist  after  him.  The  house 
door  was  heard  to  close  upon  them,  their  steps  were  heard 
passing  over  the  dull  pavement  of  the  echoing  court-yard, 
and  still  nobody  had  added  a  word.  Mrs.  Clennam  and 
Jeremiah  had  exchanged  a  look  ;  and  had  then  looked,  and 
looked  still,  at  Affery;  who  sat  mending  the  stocking  with 
great  assiduity. 

*'  Come  !  '*  said  Mr.  Flintwinch  at  length,  screwing  him- 
self a  curve  or  two  in  the  direction  of  the  window-seat,  and 
rubbing  the  palms  of  his  hands  on  his  coat-tail  as  if  he  were 
preparing  them  to  do  something  :  "  Whatever  has  to  be  said 
among  us,  had  better  be  begun  to  be  said,  without  more  loss 
of  time.     So,  Affery,  my  woman,  take  yourself  away  !  " 

In  a  moment,  Affery  had  thrown  the  stocking  down, 
started  up,  caught  hold  of  the  window-sill  with  her  right  hand, 
lodged  herself  upon  the  window-seat  with  her  right  knee,  and 
was  flourishing  her  left  hand,  beating  expected  assailants  off. 

^'  No,  I  won't,  Jeremiah — no,  I  won't — no,  I  won't !  I 
won't  go  !  I'll  stay  here.  I'll  hear  all  I  don't  know,  and  say 
all  I  know.  I  will,  at  last,  if  I  die  for  it.  I  will,  I  will,  I 
will,  I  will  !  " 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  stiffening  with  indignation  and  amaze- 
ment, moistened  the  fingers  of  one  hand  at  his  lips,  softly  • 
described  a  circle  with  them  in  the  palm  of  the  other  hand, 
and  continued  with  a  menacing  grin  to  screw  himself  in  the 
direction  of  his  wife;  gasping  some  remark  as  he  advanced, 
of  which,  in  his  choking  anger,  only  the  words,  "  Such  a 
dose  !  "  were  audible. 

"  Not  a  bit  nearer,  Jeremiah  !  "  cried  Affery,  never  ceas- 
ing to  beat  the  air.  ''Don't  come  a  bit  nearer  to  me,  or  I'll 
rouse  the  neighborhood  !  I'll  throw  myself  out  of  the  win- 
dow. I'll  scream  fire  and  murder  !  I'll  wake  the  dead  ! 
Stop  where  you  are,  or  I'll  make  shrieks  enough  to  wake  the 
dead  !  " 

The  determined  voice  of  Mrs.  Clennam  echoed  ^*  Stop  !" 
Jeremial^had  stopped  already. 


768  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  It  is  closing  in,  Flintwinch.  Let  her  alone.  Affery,  do 
you  turn  against  me  after  these  many  years  ?  " 

"  I  do,  if  it's  turning  against  you  to  hear  what  I  don't 
know,  and  say  what  1  know.  I  have  broke  out  now,  and  I 
can't  go  back.  I  am  determined  to  do  it.  I  will  do  it,  I 
will,  I  will  !  If  that's  turning  against  you,  yes,  I  turn  against 
both  of  you  two  clever  ones.  I  told  Arthur  when  he  first 
come  home,  to  stand  up  against  you.  I  told  him  it  was  no 
reason,  because  I  was  afraid  of  my  life  of  you,  that  he  should 
be.  All  manner  of  things  have  been  a-going  on  since  then, 
and  I  won't  be  run  up  by  Jeremiah,  nor  yet  I  won't  be  dazed 
and  scared,  nor  made  a  party  to  I  don't  know  what,  no  more. 
I  won't,  I  won't  !  I'll  up  for  Arthur  when  he  has  nothing 
left,  and  is  ill,  and  in  prison,  and  can't  up  for  himself,  I  will, 
I  will,  I  will,  I  will  !  " 

*'  How  do  you  know,  you  heap  of  confusion,"  asked  Mrs. 
Clennam  sternly,  *'  that  in  doing  what  you  are  doing  now,  you 
are  even  serving  Arthur  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  nothing  rightly  about  any  thing,"  said 
Affery  ;  "  and  if  ever  you  said  a  true  word  in  your  life,  it's 
when  you  call  me  a  heap  of  confusion,  for  you  two  clever 
ones  have  done  your  most  to  make  me  such.  You  married 
me  whether  I  liked  it  or  not,  and  you've  led  me,  pretty  well 
ever  since,  such  a  life  of  dreaming  and  frightening  as  never 
was  known,  and  what  do  you  expect  me  to  be  but  a  heap  of 
confusion  ?  You  wanted  to  make  me  such,  and  I  am  such  : 
but  I  won't  submit  no  longer  ;  no,  I  won't,  I  won't,  I  won't, 
I  won't  ! "  She  was  still  beating  the  air  against  all 
comers. 

After  gazing  at  her  in  silence,  Mrs.  Clennam  turned  to 
Rigaud.  *^  You  see  and  hear  this  foolish  creature.  Do  you 
object  to  such  a  piece  of  distraction  remaining  where  she 
is?" 

"  I,  madame,"  he  replied,  "  do  I  ?  That's  a  question  for 
you." 

'^  I  do  not,"  she  said  gloomily.  *' There  is  little  left  to 
choose  now.     Flintwinch,  it  is  closing  in." 

Mr.  Flintwinch  replied  by  directing  a  look  of  red  vengeance 
at  his  wife,  and'  then,  as  if  to  pinion  himself  from  falling  upon 
her,  screwed  his  crossed  arms  into  the  breast  of  his  waistcoat, 
and  with  his  chin  very  near  one  of  his  elbows,  stood  in  a  cor- 
ner, watching  Rigaud  in  the  oddest  attitude.  Rigaud,  for  his 
part,  arose  from  his  chair,  and  seated  himself  on  the  table, 
with  his  legs  dangling.     In  this  easy  attitude  he  met  Mrs. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  769 

Clennam's  set  face,  with  his  mustache  going  up,  and  his  nose 
coming  down. 

^^  Madame,  I  am  a  gentleman " 

**  Of  whom,"  she  interrupted  in  her  steady  tones,  "  I  have 
heard  disparagement,  in  connection  with  a  French  jail,  and 
an  accusation  of  murder." 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  her  with  his  exaggerated  gallantry. 

^*  Perfectly.  Exactly.  Of  a  lady,  too  !  What  absurdity! 
How  incredible  !  I  had  the  honor  of  making  a  great  success 
then  ;  I  hope  to  have  the  honor  of  making  a  great  success 
now.  I  kiss  your  hands.  Madame,  I  am  a  gentleman  (I  was 
going  to  observe),  who,  when  he  says,  ^  I  will  definitely  finish 
this  or  that  affair  at  the  present  sitting,'  does  definitely  finish 
it.  I  announce  to  you,  that  we  are  arrived  at  our  last  sitting, 
on  our  little  business.  You  do  me  the  favor  to  follow,  and 
to  comprehend  ?  " 

She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  a  frown.     "  Yes." 

^^  Further,  I  am  a  gentleman  to  whom  mere  mercenary 
trade-bargains  are  unknown,  but  to  whom  money  is  always 
acceptable  as  the  means  of  pursuing  his  pleasures.  You  do 
me  the  favor  to  follow,  and  to  comprehend  ?  " 

*^  Scarcely  necessary  to  ask,  one  would  say.     Yes." 

^'  Further,  I  am  a  gentleman  of  the  softest  and  sweetest 
disposition,  but  who,  if  trifled  with,  becomes  enraged.  Noble 
natures  under  such  circumstances  become  enraged.  I  possess 
a  noble  nature.  When  the  lion  is  awakened — that  is  to  say, 
when  I  enrage — the  satisfaction  of  my  animosity  is  as  accept- 
able to  me  as  money.  You  always  do  me  the  favor  to  fol- 
low, and  to  comprehend  ?  " 

**  Yes,"  she  answered,  somewhat  louder  than  before. 

"  Do  not  let  me  derange  you  ;  pray  be  tranquil.  I  have 
said  we  are  now  arrived  at  our  last  sitting.  Allow  me  to  re- 
call the  two  sittings  we  have  held." 

^'  It  is  not  necessary." 

*' Death,  madame,"  he  burst  out,  ^'it's  my  fancy  !  Besides 
it  clears  the  way.  The  first  sitting  was  limited.  I  had  the 
honor  of  making  your  acquaintance — of  presenting  my  letter  ; 
I  am  a  knight  of  industry,  at  your  service,  madame,  but  my 
polished  manners  had  won  me  so  much  of  success,  as  a  mas- 
ter of  languages,  among  your  compatriots,  who  are  as  stiff  as 
their  own  starch  is  to  one  another,  but  are  ever  ready  to  re- 
lax to  a  foreign  gentleman  of  polished  manners — and  of 
observing  one  or  two  little  things,"  he  glanced  around  the 
room  and  smiled,  '*  about  this  honorable  house,  to  know  which 


770  ,  IJTTLE  DORRIT. 

was  necessary  to  assure  me,  and  to  convince  me  that  I  had 
the  distinguished  pleasure  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  the 
lady  I  sought.  I  achieved  this.  1  gave  my  word  of  honor 
to  our  dear  Flintwinch,  that  I  would  return.  I  gracefully 
departed." 

Her  face  neither  acquiesced  nor  demurred.  The  same 
when  he  paused  and  when  he  spoke,  it  has  yet  showed  him 
always  the  one  attentive  frown,  and  the  dark  revelation  before 
mentioned  of  her  being  nerved  for  the  occasion. 

'^  I  say,  gracefully  departed,  because  it  was  graceful  to  retire 
without  alarming  a  lady.  To  be  morally  graceful,  not  less 
than  physically,  is  a  part  of  the  character  of  Rigaud  Blan- 
dois.  It  was  also  politic,  as  leaving  you,  with  something 
overhanging  you,  to  expect  me  again  with  a  little  anxiety,  on 
a  day  not  named.  But  your  slave  is  politic.  By  heaven, 
madame,  politic  !  Let  us  return.  On  the  day  not  named,  I 
have  again  the  honor  to  render  myself  at  your  house.  I  inti- 
mate that  I  have  something  so  sell,  which,  if  not  bought,  will 
compromise  madame,  whom  I  highly  esteem.  I  explain  my- 
self generally,  I  demand — I  think  it  was  a  thousand  pounds. 
Will  you  correct  me  ?  " 

Thus  forced  to  speak,  she  replied,  with  constraint,  **  You 
demanded  as  much  as  a  thousand  pounds." 

''  I  demand  at  present,  two.  Such  are  the  evils  of  delay. 
But  to  return  once  more.  We  are  not  accordant  ;  we  differ 
on  that  occasion,  I  am  playful  ;  playfulness  is  a  part  of  my 
amiable  character.  Playfully,  1  become  as  one  slain  and 
hidden.  For,  it  may  alone  be  worth  half  the  sum,  to  madame, 
to  be  freed  from  the  suspicions  that  my  droll  idea  awakens. 
Accident  and  spies  intermix  themselves  against  my  playful- 
ness and  spoil  the  fruit,  perhaps — who  knows  ?  only  you  and 
Flintwinch — when  it  is  just  ripe.  Thus,  madame,  I  am  here 
for  the  last  time.     Listen  !     Definitely  the  last." 

As  he  struck  his  straggling  boot-heels  against  the  flap  of 
the  table,  meeting  her  frown  with  an  insolent  gaze,  he  began 
to  change  his  tone  for  a  fiercer  one. 

"  Bah  !  Stop  an  instant  !  Let  us  advance  by  steps. 
Here  is  my  hotel  note  to  be  paid,  according  to  contract. 
Five  minutes  hence  we  may  be  at  daggers'  points.  I'll  not 
leave  it  till  then,  or  you'll  cheat  me.  Pay  it  !  Count  me  the 
money  !  " 

"  Take  it  from  his  hand  and  pay  it,  Flintwinch,"  said  Mrs. 
Clennam. 

He  spirted  it  into  Mr.  Flintwinch's  face,  when  the  old 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  77T 

man  advanced  to  take  it;  and  held  forth  his  hand,  repeating 
noisily,  ''  Pay  it  !  Count  it  out  !  Good  money  !  "  Jeremiah 
picked  the  bill  up,  looked  at  the  total  with  a  bloodshot  eye, 
took  a  small  canvas  bag  from  his  pocket,  and  told  the  amount 
into  his  hand. 

Rigaud  chinked  the  money,  weighed  it  in  his  hand,  threw 
it  up  a  little  way  and  caught  it,  chinked  it  again. 

*'  The  sound  of  it,  to  the  bold  Rigaud  Blandois,  is  like  the 
taste  of  fresh  meat  to  the  tiger.  Say,  then,  madame.  How 
much  ?  " 

He  turned  upon  her  suddenly,  with  a  menacing  gesture  of 
the  weighted  hand  that  clenched  the  money,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  strike  her  with  it. 

"  I  tell  you  again,  as  I  told  you  before,  that  we  are  not 
rich  here,  as  you  suppose  us  to  be,  and  that  your  demand 
is  excessive.  I  have  not  the  present  means  of  complying 
with  such  a  demand,  if  1  had  ever  so  great  an  inclination." 

"  If  !  "  cried  Rigaud.  "  Hear  this  lady  with  her  if  !  Will 
you  say  that  you  have  not  the  inclination  ?  " 

**  I  will  say  what  presents  itself  to  me,  and  not  what  pre- 
sents itself  to  you." 

*'  Say  it  then.  As  to  the  inclination.  Quick  !  Come  to 
the  inclination,  and  I  know  what  to  do." 

She  was  no  quicker,  and  no  slower,  in  her  reply.  "  It 
would  seem  that  you  have  obtained  possession  of  a  paper — 
or  of  papers — which  I  assuredly  have  the  inclination  to 
recover." 

Rigaud,  with  a  loud  laugh,  drummed  his  heels  against  the 
table,  and  chinked  his  money.  *'  I  think  so  I  I  believe  you 
there  !  " 

"  The  paper  might  be  worth,  to  me,  a  sum  of  money.  I 
can  not  say  how  much,  or  how  little." 

"  What  the  devil  !  "  he  asked  savagely.  *'  Not  after  a  week's 
grace  to  consider  ?  " 

^*  No  !  I  will  not,  out  of  my  scanty  means — for  I  tell  you 
again,  we  are  poor  here,  and  not  rich — I  will  not  offer  any 
price  for  a  power  that  I  do  not  know  the  worst  and  the  fullest 
extent  of.  This  is  the  third  time  of  your  hinting  and  threat- 
ening. You  must  speak  explicitly,  or  you  may  go  where 
you  will,  and  do  what  you  will.  It  is  better  to  be  torn  to 
pieces  at  a  spring,  than  to  be  a  mouse  at  the  caprice  of  such 
a  cat." 

He  looked  at  her  so  hard  with  those  eyes  too  near  to- 
gether, that  the  sinister  sight  of  each,  crossing  that  of  the 


772  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

other,  seemed  to  make  the  bridge  of  his  hooked  nose  crooked. 
After  a  long  survey,  he  said,  with  the  further  setting  off  of 
his  infernal  smile: 

"  You  are  a  bold  woman  !  " 

*^  I  am  a  resolved  woman." 

"  You  always  were.  What  ?  She  always  was;  is  it  not  so, 
my  little  Flintwinch  ? " 

^^  Flintwinch,  say  nothing  to  him.  It  is  for  him  to  say  here, 
and  now,  all  he  can  ;  or  to  go  hence,  and  do  all  he  can.  You 
know  this  to  be  our  determination.  Leave  him  to  his  action 
on  it." 

She  did  not  shrink  under  his  evil  leer,  or  avoid  it.  He 
turned  it  upon  her  again,  but  she  remained  steady  at  the 
point  to  which  she  had  fixed  herself.  He  got  off  the  table, 
placed  a  chair  near  the  sofa,  sat  down  in  it,  and  leaned 
an  arm  upon  the  sofa  close  to  her  own,  which  he  touched 
with  his  hand.  Her  face  was  ever  frowning,  attentive,  and 
settled. 

*'  It  is  your  pleasure  then,  madame,  that  I  shall  relate 
a  morsel  of  family  history  in  this  little  family  society," 
said  Rigaud,  with  a  warning  play  of  his  lithe  fingers  on 
her  arm.  ^'  I  am  something  of  a  doctor.  Let  me  touch  your 
pulse." 

She  suffered  him  to  take  her  wrist  in  his  hand.  Holding 
it,  he  proceeded  to  say: 

"  A  history  of  a  strange  marriage,  and  a  strange  mother, 
and  a  revenge,  and  a  suppression.  Ay,  ay,  ay  ?  This  pulse 
is  beating  curiously  !  It  appears  to  me  that  it  doubles  while 
X  touch  it.  Are  these  the  usual  changes  of  your  malady, 
madame  ?  " 

There  was  a  struggle  in  her  maimed  arm  as  she  twisted  it 
away,  but  there  was  none  in  her  face.  On  his  face  there 
was  his  own  smile. 

"  I  have  lived  an  adventurous  life.  I  am  an  adventurous 
character.  I  have  known  many  adventurers  ;  interesting 
spirits — amiable  society  !  To  one  of  them  I  owe  my  knowl- 
edge, and  my  proofs — I  repeat  it,  estimable  lady — proofs — of 
the  ravishing  little  family  history  I  go  to  commence.  You  will 
be  charmed  with  it.  But,  bah  !  I  forget.  One  should  name 
a  history.  Shall  I  name  it  the  history  of  a  house  ?  But,  bah, 
again.  There  are  so  many  houses.  Shall  I  name  it  the 
history  of  this  house  ?  " 

Leaning  over  the  sofa,  poised  on  two  legs  of  his  chair  and 
his  left  elbow  ;  that  hand  often  tapping  her  arm,  to  beat  his 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  773 

words  home  ;  his  legs  crossed  ;  his  right  hand  sometimes  ar- 
ranging his  hair,  sometimes  smoothing  his  mustache,  some- 
times striking  his  nose,  always  threatening  her  whatever  it 
did  ;  coarse,  insolent,  rapacious,  cruel,  and  powerful  ;  he 
pursued  his  narrative  at  his  ease. 

''  In  fine,  then,  I  name  it  the  history  of  this  house.  I  com- 
mence it.  There  live  here,  let  us  suppose,  an  uncle  and 
nephew.  The  uncle  a  rigid  old  gentleman  of  strong  force  of 
character ;  the  nephew,  habitually  timid,  repressed,  and 
under  constraint." 

Mistress  Affery,  fixedly  attentive  in  the  window-seat,  bit- 
ing the  rolled  up  end  of  her  apron,  and  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  here  cried  out,  "  Jeremiah,  keep  off  from  me  !  I've 
heerd  in  my  dreams,  of  Arthur's  father  and  his  uncle.  He's 
a  talking  of  them.  It  was  before  my  time  here  ;  but  I've 
heerd  in  my  dreams  that  Arthur's  father  was  a  poor,  irreso- 
lute, frightened  chap,  who  had  had  every  thing  but  his 
orphan  life  scared  out  of  him  when  he  was  young,  and  that 
he  had  no  voice  in  the  choice  of  his  wife  even,  but  his  uncle 
chose  her.  There  she  sits  !  I  heerd  it  in  my  dreams,  and 
you  said  it  to  her  own  self." 

As  Mr.  Flintwinch  shook  his  fist  at  her,  and  as  Mrs.  Clen- 
nam  gazed  upon  her,  Rigaud  kissed  his  hand  to  her. 

''Perfectly  right,  dear  Madame  Flintwinch.  You  have  a 
genius  for  dreaming." 

'*  I  don't  want  none  of  your  praises,"  returned  Affery.  "  I 
don't  want  to  have  nothing  at  all  to  say  to  you.  But  Jere- 
miah said  they  was  dreams,  and  I'll  tell  'em  as  such  !  "  Here 
she  put  up  her  apron  in  her  mouth  again,  as  if  she  were  stop- 
ping somebody  else's  mouth — perhaps  Jeremiah's,  which  was 
chattering  with  threats  as  if  he  were  grimly  cold. 

"Our  beloved  Madame  Flintwinch,"  said  Rigaud,  *' de- 
veloping all  of  a  sudden  a  fine  susceptibility  and  spirituality, 
is  right  to  a  marvel.  Yes.  So  runs  the  history.  Monsieur, 
the  uncle,  commands  the  nephew  to  marry.  Monsieur  says 
to  him  in  effect,  '  My  nephew,  I  introduce  to  you  a  lady  of 
strong  force  of  character  like  myself  ;  a  resolved  lady,  a 
stern  lady,  a  lady  who  has  a  will  that  can  break  the  weak  to 
powder  ;  a  lady  without  pity,  without  love,  implacable,  re- 
vengeful, cold  as  the  stone,  but  raging  as  the  fire.'  Ah  ! 
what  fortitude  !  Ah,  what  superiority  of  intellectual  strength  ! 
Truly  a  proud  and  noble  character  that  I  describe  in  the 
supposed  words  of  monsieur  the  uncle.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Death 
of  my  soul,  I  love  the  sweet  lady  !  " 


774  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Mrs.  Clennam's  face  had  changed.  There  was  a  remark- 
able darkness  of  color  on  it,and  the  brow  was  more  contracted. 
*^  Madame,  madame,"  said  Rigaud,  tapping  her  on  the  arm, 
as  if  his  cruel  hand  were  sounding  a  musical  instrument. 
^' I  perceive  I  interest  you.  I  perceive  I  awaken  your  sym- 
pathy.    Let  us  go  on." 

The  drooping  nose  and  the  ascending  mustache  had,  how- 
ever, to  be  hidden  for  a  moment  with  the  white  hand, 
before  he  could  go  on  ;  he  enjoyed  the  effect  he  made,  so 
much. 

^'  The  nephew  being,  as  the  lucid  Madame  Flintwinch  has 
remarked,  a  poor  devil  who  has  had  every  thing  but  his  or- 
phan life  frightened  and  famished  out  of  him — the  nephew 
abases  his  head,  and  makes  response  :  ^  My  uncle,  it  is  to 
you  to  command.  Do  as  you  will  !  Monsieur,  the  uncle, 
does  as  he  will.  It  is  what  he  always  does.  The  auspicious 
nuptials  take  place  ;  the  newly-married  come  home  to  this 
charming  mansion  ;  the  lady  is  received,  let  us  suppose,  by 
Flintwinch.     Hey,  old  intriguer  ?  " 

Jeremiah,  with  his  eyes  upon  his  mistress,  made  no  reply. 
Rigaud  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  struck  his  ugly  nose, 
and  made  a  chuckling  with  his  tongue. 

''  Soon,  the  lady  makes  a  singular  and  exciting  discovery. 
Thereupon  full  of  anger,  full  of  jealousy,  full  of  vengeance, 
she  forms — see  you,  madame  ? — a  scheme  of  retribution,  the 
weight  of  which  she  ingeniously  forces  her  crushed  husband 
to  bear  himself,  as  well  as  execute  upon  her  enemy.  What 
superior  intelligence  !  " 

"  Keep  off,  Jeremiah  !  "  cried  the  palpitating  Affery,  tak- 
ing her  apron  from  her  mouth  again,  ''  But  it  was  one  of  my 
dreams  that  you  told  her,when  you  quarreled  with  her  one  win- 
ter evening  at  dusk,  there  she  sits  and  you  looking  at  her,  that 
she  oughtn't  to  have  let  Arthur  when  he  come  home,  suspect 
his  father  only;  that  she  had  always  had  the  strength  and  the 
power  ;  and  that  she  ought  to  have  stood  up  more,  to  Arthur, 
for  his  father.  It  was  in  the  same  dream  where  you  said  to 
her  that  she  was  not — not  something,  but  I  don't  know 
what,  for  she  burst  out  tremendous  and  stopped  you.  You 
know  the  dream  as  well  as  I  do.  When  you  come  down 
stairs  into  the  kitchen  with  the  candle  in  your  hand,  and 
hitched  my  apron  off  my  head.  When  you  told  me  I  had 
been  dreaming.  When  you  wouldn't  believe  the  noises." 
After  this  explosion  Affery  put  her  apron  into  her  mouth 
again  ;  always  keeping  her  hand  on  the  window-sill,  and  her 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  775 

knee  on  the   window-seat,  ready  to  cry  out,  or  jump  out,  if 
her  lord  and  master  approached. 
Rigaud  had  not  lost  a  word  of  this. 

"  Haha  !  "  he  cried,  lifting  his  eyebrows,  folding  his  arms, 
and  leaning  back  in  his  chair.  ''  Assuredly,  Madame  Flint- 
winch  is  an  oracle  !  How  shall  we  interpret  the  oracle, 
you  and  I,  and   the  old  intriguer  ?     He  said  that  you  were 

not ?     And  you  burst  out  and  stopped  him  !     What  was 

it   you  were   not  ?     What  is   it  you   are    not  ?      Say    then, 
madame  !  " 

Under  this  ferocious  banter,  she  sat  breathing  harder,  and 
her  mouth  was  disturbed.  Her  lips  quivered  and  opened,  in 
spite  of  her  utmost  efforts  to  keep  them  still. 

^'  Come  then,  madame  !  Speak,  then  !  Our  old  intriguer 
said  that  you  were  not — and  you  stopped  him.  He  was  going 
to  say  that  you  were  not — what  ?  I  know  already  but  I 
want  a  little  confidence  from  you.  Now,  then  ?  You  are 
not  what  ?  " 

She  tried  again  to  repress  herself,  but  broke  out  vehe- 
mently, "  Not  Arthur's  mother  !  " 
^' Good,"  said  Rigaud.  ''You  are  amenable." 
With  the  set  expression  of  her  face  all  torn  away  by  the 
explosion  of  her  passion,  and  with  a  bursting  from  every  rent 
feature  of  the  smoldering  fire  so  long  pent  up,  she  cried 
out  :  *'  I  will  tell  it  myself  !  I  will  not  hear  it  from  your 
lips,  and  with  the  taint  of  your  wickedness  upon  it.  Since 
it  must  be  seen,  I  will  have  it  seen  by  the  light  I  stood  in. 
Not  another  word.     Hear  me  !  " 

*'  Unless  you  are  a  more  obstinate  and  more  persisting 
woman  than  even  I  know  you  to  be,"  Mr.  Flintwinch  inter- 
posed, ''  you  had  better  leave  Mr.  Rigaud,  Mr.  Blandois,  Mr. 
Beelzebub,  to  tell  it  in  his  own  way.  What  does  it  signify 
when  he  knows  all  about  it  ?" 
"  He  does  not  know  all  about  it." 

*'  He  knows  all  he  cares  about  it,"  Mr.  Flintwinch  testily 
urged. 

"  He  does  not  know  me.'' 

''What  do  you  suppose  he  cares  for  you,  you  conceited 
woman  ? "  said  Mr.  Flintwinch. 

"  I  tell  you,  Flintwinch,  I  will  speak.  I  tell  you  when  it 
has  come  to  this,  I  will  tell  it  with  my  own  lips,  and  will 
express  myself  throughout  it.  What  !  Have  I  suffered 
nothing  in  this  room,  no  deprivation,  no  imprisonment,  that 
I  should  condescend  at  last  to  contemplate  myself  in  such  a 


776  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

glass  as  that !  Can  you  see  him  ?  Can  you  hear  him  ?  If 
your  wife  were  a  hundred  times  the  ingrate  that  she  is,  and 
if  I  were  a  thousand  times  more  hopeless  than  I  am  of 
inducing  her  to  be  silent  if  this  man  is  silenced,  I  would  tell 
it  myself,  before  I  would  bear  the  torment  of  the  hearing  it 
from  him.'* 

Rigaud  pushed  his  chair  a  little  back  ;  pushed  his  legs  out 
straight  before  him  ;  and  sat  with  his  arms  folded,  over 
against  her. 

*^  You  do  not  know  what  it  is,"  she  went  on  addressing 
him,  *^  to  be  brought  up  strictly  and  straitly.  I  was  so 
brought  up.  Mine  was  no  light  youth  of  sinful  gayety  and 
pleasure.  Mine  were  days  of  wholesome  repression,  punish- 
ment and  fear.  The  corruption  of  our  hearts,  the  evil  of 
our  ways,  the  curse  that  is  upon  us,  the  terrors  that  surround 
us — these  were  the  themes  of  my  childhood.  They  formed 
my  character,  and  filled  me  with  an  abhorrence  of  evil- 
doers. When  old  Mr.  Gilbert  Clennam  proposed  his  orphan 
nephew  to  my  father  for  my  husband,  my  father  impressed 
upon  me  that  his  bringing-up  had  been,  like  mine,  one  of 
severe  restraint.  He  told  me,  that  besides  the  discipline  his 
spirit  had  undergone,  he  had  lived  in  a  starved  house,  where 
rioting  and  gayety  were  unknown,  and  where  every  day  was 
a  day  of  toil  and  trial  like  the  last.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
been  a  man  in  years,  long  before  his  uncle  had  acknowledged 
him  as  one  ;  and  that  from  his  school-days  to  that  hour,  his 
uncle's  roof  had  been  a  sanctuary  to  him  from  the  contagion 
of  the  irreligious  and  dissolute.  When,  within  a  twelve- 
month of  our  marriage,  I  found  my  husband,  at  that  time 
when  my  father  spoke  of  him,  to  have  sinned  against  the 
Lord  and  outraged  me  by  holding  a  guilty  creature  in  my 
place,  was  I  to  doubt  that  it  had  been  appointed  to  me  to 
make  the  discovery,  and  that  it  was  appointed  to  me  to  lay 
the  hand  of  punishment  upon  that  creature  of  perdition  ? 
Was  I  to  dismiss  in  a  moment — not  my  own  wrongs — what 
was  I  !  but  all  the  rejection  of  sin,  and  all  the  war  against  it, 
in  which  I  had  been  bred  ?  " 

She  laid  her  wrathful  hand  upon  the  watch  on  the 
table. 

"  No  !  *  Do  not  forget.'  The  initials  of  those  word^;  are 
within  here  now,  and  were  within  here  then.  I  was  appointed 
to  find  the  old  letter  that  referred  to  them,  and  that  told  me 
what  they  meant,  and  whose  work  they  were,  and  why  they 
were  worked,   lying  with   this  watch  in  his  secret  drawer^ 


LITTLE  DORRrr.  777 

But  for  that  appointment  there  would  have  been  no  dis- 
covery. ^  Do  not  forget.'  It  spoke  to  me  like  a  voice  from 
an  angry  cloud.  Do  not  forget  the  deadly  sin,  do  not 
forget  the  appointed  discovery,  do  not  forget  the  appointed 
suffering.  I  did  not  forget.  Was  it  my  own  wrong 
1  remembered  ?  Mine  I  I  was  but  a  servant  and  a  min- 
ister. What  power  could  I  have  had  over  them,  but 
that  they  were  bound  in  the  bonds  of  their  sin,  and  delivered 
to  me  !  " 

More  than  forty  years  had  passed  over  the  gray  head  of 
tins  determined  woman,  since  the  time  she  recalled.  More 
than  forty  years  of  strife  and  struggle  with  the  whisper 
that,  by  whatever  name  she  called  her  vindictive  pride  and 
rage,  nothing  through  all  eternity  could  change  their  nature. 
Yet,  gone  those  more  than  forty  years,  and  come  this 
Nemesis  now  looking  her  in  the  face,  she  still  abided  by  her 
old  impiety — still  reversed  the  order  of  creation,  and 
breathed  her  own  breath  into  a  clay  image  of  her  Creator. 
Verily,  verily,  travelers  have  seen  many  monstrous  idols  in 
many  countries  ;  but  no  human  eyes  have  ever  seen  more 
daring,  gross  and  shocking  images  of  the  divine  nature,  than 
we  creatures  of  the  dust  make  our  own  likenesses,  of  our  own 
bad  passions. 

"  When  I  forced  him  to  give  her  up  to  me,  by  her  name 
and  place  of  abode,"  she  went  on  in  her  torrent  of  indigna- 
tion and  defense  ;  ''when  I  accused  her,  and  she  fell  hiding 
her  face  at  my  feet,  was  it  my  injury  that  I  asserted,  were 
tthey  my  reproaches  that  I  poured  upon  her  ?  Those  who 
vvvere  appointed  of  old  to  go  to  wicked  kings  and  accuse 
•them— were  they  not  ministers  and  servants  ?  And  had 
:not  I,  unworthy,  and  far  removed  from  them,  sin  to  de- 
nounce ?  When  she  pleaded  to  me  her  youth,  and  his 
wretched  and  hard  life  (that  was  her  phrase  for  the  virtuous 
training  he  had  belied),  and  the  desecrated  ceremony  of 
marriage  there  had^  secretly  been  between  them,  and  the  ter- 
rors of  want  and  shame  that  had  overwhelmed  them  both, 
when  I  was  first  appointed  to  be  the  instrument  of  their 
punishment,  and  the  love  (for  she  said  the  word  to  me,  down 
;^t  my  feet)  in  which  she  had  abandoned  him  and  left  him  to 
rH^e,  was  it  my  enemy  that  became  my  footstool,  were 
ithey  the  words  of  my  wrath  that  made  her  shrink  and  quiver! 
Not  .unto  me  the  strength  be  ascribed  ;  not  unto  me  the 
wringing  of  the  expiation  !  " 

JVLany  years  had  come  and  gone  since  she  had  had  the  free 


778  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

use  even  of  her  fingers  ;  but  it  was  noticeable  that  she  had 
already  more  than  once  struck  her  clenched  hand  vigorously 
upon  the  table,  and  that  when  she  said  these  words  she  raised 
her  whole  arm  in  the  air,  as  though  it  had  been  a  common 
action  with  her. 

^'  And  what  was  the  repentance  that  was  extorted  from  the 
hardness  of  her  heart  and  the  blackness  of  her  depravity  ?  I, 
vindictive  and  implacable  ?  It  may  seem  so,  to  such  as  you 
who  know  no  righteousness,  and  no  appointment  except 
Satan's.  Laugh  ;  but  I  will  be  known  as  1  know  myself,  and 
as  Flintwinch  knows  me,  though  it  is  only  to  you  and  this 
half-witted  woman." 

"  Add,  to  yourself,  madame,"  said  Rigaud.  "  I  have  my 
little  suspicions,  that  madame  is  rather  solicitous  to  be  jus- 
tified to  herself." 

"  It  is  false.  It  is  not  so.  I  have  no  need  to  be,"  she 
said,  with  great  energy  and  anger. 

''  Truly  ?  "  retorted  Rigaud.     "  Hah  !  " 

"  I  ask,  what  was  the  penitence,  in  works,  that  was  de- 
manded of  her  ?  ^  You  have  a  child  ;  I  have  none.  You 
love  that  child.  Give  him  to  me.  He  shall  believe  himself 
to  be  my  son  ;  and  he  shall  be  believed  by  every  one 
to  be  my  son.  To  save  you  from  exposure,  his  father  shall 
swear  never  to  see  or  communicate  with  you  more  ;  equally 
to  save  him  from  being  stripped  by  his  uncle  and 
to  save  your  child  from  being  a  beggar,  you  shall  swear 
never  to  see  or  communicate  with  either  of  them  more. 
That  done,  and  your  present  means,  derived-  from  my  hus- 
band, renounced,  I  charge  myself  with  your  support.  You 
may,  with  your  place  of  retreat  unknown,  then  leave  if  you 
please,  uncontradicted  by  me,  the  lie  that  when  you  passed 
out  of  all  knowledge  but  mine,  you  merited  a  good  name.' 
That  was  all.  She  had  to  sacrifice  her  sinful  and  shameful 
affections  ;  no  more.  She  was  then  free  to  bear  her  load  of 
guilt  in  secret,  and  to  break  her  heart  in  secret ;  and  through 
such  present  misery  (light  enough  for  her,  I  think!)  to  pur- 
chase her  redemption  from  endless  misery,  if  she  could. 
If,  in  this,  I  punished  her  here,  did  I  not  open  to  her  a  way 
hereafter  ?  If  she  knew  herself  to  be  surrounded  by 
insatiable  vengeance  and  unquenchable  fires,  were  they 
mine  ?  If  I  threatened  her,  then  and  afterward,  with  the 
terrors  that  encompassed  her,  did  I  hold  them  in  my  right 
hand  ? " 

She  turned  the  watch  upon  the  table,  and  opened  it,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  779 

with  an  unsoftening  face,  looked  at  the  worked  letters 
within. 

^'  They  did  not  forget.  It  is  appointed  against  such 
offenses  that  the  offenders  shall  not  be  able  to  forget.  If 
the  presence  of  Arthur  was  a  daily  reproach  to  his  father, 
and  if  the  absence  of  Arthur  was  a  daily  agony  to  his  mother, 
that  was  the  just  dispensation  of  Jehovah.  As  well  might  it 
be  charged  upon  me,  that  the  stings  of  an  awakened  con- 
science drove  her  mad,  and  that  it  was  the  will  of  the  Dis- 
poser of  all  things  that  she  should  live  so  many  years.  I 
devoted  myself  to  reclaim  the  otherwise  predestined  and  lost 
boy  ;  to  give  him  the  reputation  of  an  honest  origin  ;  to 
bring  him  up  in  fear  and  trembling,  and  in  a  life  of  practical 
contrition  for  the  sins  that  were  heavy  on  his  head  before 
his  entrance  into  this  condemned  world.  Was  that  a  cruelty  ? 
VVas  I,  too,  not  visited  with  consequences  of  the  original 
offense,  in  which  I  had  no  complicity  ?  Arthur's  father  and 
I  lived  no  further  apart,  with  half  the  globe  between  us,  than 
when  we  were  together  in  this  house.  He  died,  and  sent 
this  watch  back  to  me,  with  its  Do-not  forget.  I  do  not 
forget,  though  I  do  not  read  it  as  he  did.  I  read  in  it,  that 
1  was  appointed  to  do  these  things.  I  have  so  read  these 
three  letters  since  I  have  had  them  lying  on  this  table,  and 
J  did  so  read  them,  with  equal  distinctness,  when  they  were 
thousands  of  miles  away." 

As  she  took  the  watch-case  in  her  hand,  with  that  new 
freedom  in  the  use  of  her  hand  of  which  she  showed  no  con- 
sciousness whatever,  bending  her  eyes  upon  it  as  if  she  were 
defying  it  to  move  her,  Rigaud  cried  with  a  loud  and  con- 
temptuous snapping  of  his  fingers,  ''  Come,  madame  !  Time 
runs  out.  Come,  lady  of  piety,  it  must  be  !  You  can  tell 
nothing  1  don't  know.  Come  to  the  money  stolen,  or  I  will  ! 
Death  of  my  soul,  I  have  had  enough  of  your  other  jargon. 
Come  straight  to  the  stolen  money  !" 

"  Wretch  that  you  are,"  she  answered,  and  now  her  hands 
clasped  her  head  ;  "  through  what  fatal  error  of  Flint- 
winch's,  through  what  incompleteness  on  his  part,  who  was 
the  only  other  person  helping  in  these  things  and  trusted 
with  them,  through  whose  and  what  bringing  together  of  the 
ashes  of  a  burned  paper,  you  have  become  possessed  of  that 
codicil,  I  know  no  more  than  how  you  acquired  the  rest  of 
your  power  here " 

''  And  yet,"  interrupted  Rigaud,  *'  it  is  my  odd  fortune  to 
have  by  me  in  a  convenient  place  that  I  know  of,  that  same 


78o  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

short  little  addition  to  the  will  of  Monsieur  Gilbert  Clennam, 
written  by  a  lady  and  witnessed  by  the  same  lady,  and  our 
old  intriguer  !  Ah,  bah,  old  intriguer,  crooked  little  puppet  ! 
Madame,  let  us  go  on.     Time  presses.     You  or  I  to  finish  ?" 

^'  I  !"  she  answered,  with  increased  determination,  if  it 
were  possible.  ^'  I,  because  I  w^ll  not  endure  to  be  shown 
myself,  and  have  myself  shown  to  any  one,  with  your  horri- 
ble distortion  upon  me.  You,  with  your  practices  of  in- 
famous foreign  prisons  and  galleys  would  make  it  the  money 
that  impelled  me.     It  was  not  the  money." 

*'  Bah,  bah,  bah  !  I  repudiate,  for  the  moment,  my  polite- 
ness, and  say,  lies,  lies,  lies.  You  know  you  suppressed  the 
deed,  and  kept  the  money." 

*'  Not  for  the  money's  sake,  wretch  !"  She  made  a  strug- 
gle as  if  she  were  starting  up  -^  even  as  if,  in  her  vehemence, 
she  had  almost  risen  on  her  disabled  feet.  "  If  Gilbert 
Clennam,  reduced  to  imbecility,  at  the  point  of  death,  and 
laboring  under  the  delusion  of  some  imaginary  relenting 
toward  a  girl,  of  whom  he  had  heard  that  his  nephew  had 
once  had  a  fancy  for  her,  which  he  had  crushed  out  of  him, 
and  that  she  afterward  dropped  away  into  melancholy  and 
withdrawal  from  all  who  knew  her — if,  in  that  state  of  weak- 
ness, he  dictated  to  me,  whose  life  she  had  darkened  with 
her  sin,  and  who  had  been  appointed  to  know  her  wicked- 
ness from  her  own  hand  and  her  own  lips,  a  bequest  meant 
as  a  recompense  to  her  for  supposed  unmerited  suffering  ; 
was  there  no  difference  between  my  spurning  that  injustice, 
and  coveting  mere  money — a  thing  which  you,  and  your 
comrades  in  prisons,  may  steal  from  any  one  ?" 

"Time  presses,  madame.     Take  care  !" 

"  If  this  house  was  blazing  from  the  roof  to  the  ground," 
she  returned,  "I  would  stay  in  it  to  justify  myself  against 
my  righteous  motives  being  classed  with  those  of  stabbers 
and  thieves." 

Rigaud  snapped  his  fingers  tauntingly  in  her  face.  "  One 
thousand  guineas  to  the  little  beauty  you  slowly  haunted  to 
death.  One  thousand  guineas  to  the  youngest  daughter  her 
patron  might  have  at  fifty,  or  (if  he  had  none)  brother's 
youngest  daughter,  on  her  coming  of  age,  '  as  the  remem- 
brance his  disinterestedness  may  like  best,  of  his  protection 
of  a  friendless  young  orphan  girl.'  Two  thousand  guineas. 
What  !     You  will  never  come  to  the  money  ?  " 

"  That  patron,"  she  was  vehemently  proceeding,  when  he 
checked  her. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  yS\ 

"  Names  !  Call  him  Mr.  Frederick  Dorrit.  No  more 
evasions." 

''  That  Frederick  Dorrit  was  the  beginning  of  it  all.  If 
he  had  not  been  a  player  of  music,  and  had  not  kept,  in 
those  days  of  his  youth  and  prosperity,  an  idle  house  where 
singers,  and  players,  and  such-like  children  of  evil,  turned 
their  backs  on  the  light,  and  their  faces  to  the  darkness,  she 
might  have  remained  in  her  lowly  station,  and  might  not  have 
been  raised  out  of  it  to  be  cast  down.  But,  no.  Satan  en- 
tered into  that  Frederick  Dorrit,  and  counseled  him  that  he 
'was  a  man  of  innocent  and  laudable  tastes  who  did  kind 
actions,  and  that  there  was  a  poor  girl  with  a  voice  for  sing- 
ing music  with.  Then  he  is  to  have  her  taught.  Then 
Arthur's  father,  who  has  all  along  been  secretly  pining  in  the 
ways  of  virtuous  ruggedness,  for  those  accursed  snares  which 
are  called  the  arts,  becomes  acquainted  with  her.  And  so,  a 
graceless  orphan,  training  to  be  a  singing-girl,  carries  it,  by 
that  Frederick  Dorrit's  agency,  against  me,  and  I  am 
humbled  and  deceived  ! — Not  I,  that  is  to  say,"  she  added 
quickly  as  color  flushed  into  her  face  ;  "  a  greater  than  I. 
What  am  I  ? " 

Jeremiah  Flintwinch,  who  had  been  gradually  screwing 
himself  toward  her,  and  who  was  now  very  near  her  elbow 
without  her  knowing  it,  made  a  specially  wry  face  of  objection 
when  she  said  these  words,  and  moreovei  twitched  his  gaiters, 
as  if  such  pretensions  were  equivalent  to  Httle  barbs  in  his 
legs. 

"  Lastly,"  she  continued,  '^  for  I  am  at  the  end  of  these 
things  and  I  will  say  no  more  of  them,  and  you  shall  say  no 
more  of  them,  and  all  that  remains  will  be  to  determine 
whether  the  knowledge  of  them  can  be  kept  among  us  who 
are  here  present  ;  lastly,  when  1  suppressed  that  paper,  with 
the  knowledge,  of  Arthur's  father " 

^'  But  not  with  his  consent,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Flint- 
winch. 

"  Who  said  with  his  consent  ?  "  She  started  to  find  Jere- 
miah so  near  her,  and  drew  back  her  head,  looking  at  him 
with  some  rising  distrust.  ^'  You  were  often  enough  between 
us,  when  he  would  have  had  me  produce  it,  and  I  would  not, 
to  have  contradicted  me  if  I  had  said,  with  his  consent.  I  say, 
when  I  suppressed  that  paper,  I  made  no  effort  to  destroy  it, 
but  kept  it  by  me,  here  in  this  house,  many  years.  The  rest 
of  the  Gilbert  property  being  left  to  Arthur's  father,  I  could, 
at  any  time,  without  unsettling  more  than  two  sums,   have 


782  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

made  a  pretense  of  finding  it.  But,  besides  that  I  must  have 
supported  such  pretense  by  a  direct  falsehood  (a  great  respon- 
sibility), I  have  seen  no  new  reason,  in  all  the  time  I  have 
been  tried  here,  to  bring  it  to  light.  It  was  a  rewarding  of 
sin  ;  the  wrong  result  of  a  delusion.  I  did  what  I  was  ap- 
pointed to  do,  and  I  have  undergone,  within  these  four  walls, 
what  I  was  appointed  to  undergo.  When  the  paper  was  at 
last  destroyed — as  I  thought — in  my  presence,  she  had  long 
been  dead,  and  her  patron,  Frederick  Dorrit,  had  long  been 
deservedly  ruined  and  imbecile.  He  had  no  daughter.  I 
had  found  the  niece  before  then  ;  and  what  I  did  for  her,  was 
better  for  her  far,  than  the  money  of  which  she  w^ould  have 
had  no  good."  She  added,  after  a  moment,  as  though  she 
addressed  the  watch  :  '^  She  herself  was  innocent,  and  I 
might  not  have  forgotten  to  relinquish  it  to  her  at  my  death  ;  " 
and  sat  looking  at  it. 

'*  Shall  1  recall  something  to  you,  worthy  madame  ?  "  said 
Rigaud.  ''  The  little  paper  was  in  this  house,  on  the  night 
when  our  friend  the  prisoner — jail-comrade  of  my  soul 
— came  home  from  foreign  countries.  Shall  I  recall  yet 
something  more  to  you  ?  The  little  singing  bird  that  never 
was  fledged,  was  long  kept  in  a  cage,  by  a  guardian  of 
your  appointing,  well  enough  known  to  our  old  intriguer  here. 
Shall  we  coax  our  old  intriguer  to  tell  us  when  he  saw  him 
last  ? " 

**  I'll  tell  you  !  "  cried  Affery,  unstopping  her  mouth.  "  I 
dreamed  it,  first  of  all  my  dreams.  Jeremiah,  if  you  come 
a-nigh  me  now,  I'll  scream  to  be  heard  at  St.  Paul's  !  The 
person  as  this  man  has  spoken  of,  was  Jeremiah's  own  twin 
brother  ;  and  he  was  here  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  on  the 
night  when  Arthur  come  home,  and  Jeremiah  with  his  own 
hands  give  him  this  paper,  along  with  it  I  don't  know  what 
more,  and  he  took  it  away  in  an  iron  box — help  !  Murder  ! 
Save  me  from  Jere-;///-ah  ! " 

Mr.  Flintwinch  had  made  a  run  at  her,  but  Rigaud  had 
caught  him  in  his  arms  midway.  After  a  moment's  wrestle 
with  him  Flintwinch  gave  up,  and  put  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

^'  What  !  '*  cried  Rigaud,  rallying  him  as  he  poked  and 
jerked  him  back  with  his  elbows,  ^' assault  a  lady  with  such  a 
genius  for  dreaming  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  Why  she'll  be  a  fortune 
to  you  as  an  exhibition.  All  that  she  dreams  comes  true. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  !  You're  so  like  him,  little  Flintwinch.  So  like 
him,  as  I  knew  him  (when  I  first  spoke  English  for  him  to  the 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  783 

host)  in  the  cabaret  of  the  Three  Billiard  Tables,  in  the  little 
street  of  the  high  roofs,  by  the  wharf  at  Antwerp  I  Ah,  but 
he  was  a  brave  boy  to  drink.  Ah,  but  he  was  a  brave  boy 
to  smoke  !  Ah,  but  he  lived  in  a  sweet  bachelor-apartmept 
— furnished,  on  the  fifth  floor,  above  the  wood  and  charcoal 
merchant's,  and  the  dress-maker's,  and  the  chairmaker's,  and 
the  maker  of  tubs — where  I  knew  him  too,  and  where,  with 
his  cognac  and  tobacco,  he  had  twelve  sleeps  a  day  and  one 
fit,  until  he  had  a  fit  too  much,  and  ascended  to  the  skies. 
Ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  does  it  matter  how  I  took  possession  of 
the  papers  in  his  iron  box  ?  Perhaps  he  confided  it  to  my 
hands  for  you,  perhaps  it  was  locked  and  my  curiosity  w^as 
piqued,  perhaps  I  suppressed  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  What  does 
it  matter,  so  that  I  have  it  safe  ?  We  are  not  particular 
here  ;  hey,  Flintwinch  ?  We  are  not  particular  here  ;  is  it 
not  so,  madame  ?  " 

Retiring  before  him  with  vicious  counter-jerks  of  his  own 
elbows,  Mr.  Flintwinch  had  got  back  into  his  corner,  where 
he  now  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  taking  breath, 
and  returning  Mrs.  Clennam's  stare.  "  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  But 
what's  this  ?  "  cried  Rigaud.  "  It  appears  as  if  you  don't 
know  one  the  other.  Permit  me,  Madame  Clennam,  who 
suppresses,  to  present  Monsieur  Flintwinch,  who  intrigues." 

Mr.  Flintwinch,  unpocketing  one  of  his  hands  to  scrape 
his  jaw,  advanced  a  step  or  so  in  that  attitude,  still  returning 
Mrs.  Clennam's  look,  and  thus  addressed  her  : 

*^  Now,  I  know  what  you  mean  by  opening  your  eyes  so 
wide  at  me,  but  you  needn't  take  the  trouble,  because  I 
don't  care  for  it.  I've  been  telling  you  for  how  many  years, 
that  you're  one  of  the  most  opiniated  and  obstinate  of 
women.  That's  what  you  are.  You  call  yourself  humble 
and  sinful,  but  you  are  the  most  bumptious  of  your  sex. 
That's  what  you  are.  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again 
when  we  have  had  a  tiff,  that  you  wanted  to  make  every 
thing  go  down  before  you,  but  I  wouldn't  go  down  before 
you — that  you  wanted  to  swallow  up  every  body  alive,  but  I 
wouldn't  be  swallowed  up  alive.  Why  didn't  you  destroy 
the  paper  when  you  first  laid  hands  upon  it  ?  I  advised  you 
to  ;  but  no,  it's  not  your  way  to  take  advice.  You  must 
keep  it  forsooth.  Perhaps  you  may  carry  it  out  at  some 
other  time,  forsooth.  As  if  I  didn't  know  better  than  that ! 
I  think  I  see  your  pride  carrying  it  out,  with  a  chance  of 
being  suspected  of  having  kept  it  by  you.  But  that's  the 
way  you  cheat  yourself.     Just  as  you  cheat  yourself  into 


784  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

making  out,  that  you  didn't  do  all  this  business  because 
you  were  a  rigorous  woman,  all  slight,  and  spite,  and  power, 
and  unforgiveness,  but  because  you  were  a  servant  and  a 
minister,  and  were  appointed  to  do  it.  Who  are  you,  that 
you  should  be  appointed  to  do  it  ?  That  may  be  your  re- 
ligion, but  it's  my  gammon.  And  to  tell  you  all  the  truth 
while  I  am  about  it,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch,  crossing  his  arms, 
and  becoming  the  express  image  of  irascible  doggedness, 
"  I  have  been  rasped — rasped  these  forty  years — by  your 
taking  such  high  ground  even  with  me,  who  knows  better  ; 
the  effect  of  it  being  coolly  to  put  me  on  low  ground.  I 
admire  you  very  much  ;  you  are  a  woman  of  strong  head 
and  great  talent  ;  but  the  strongeit  head,  and  the  greatest 
talent,  can't  rasp  a  man  for  forty  years  without  making  him 
sore.  So  I  don't  care  for  your  present  eyes.  Now  I  am 
coming  to  the  paper,  and  mark  what  I  say.  You  put  it  away 
somewhere,  and  you  kept  your  own  counsel  where.  You're 
an  active  woman  at  that  time,  and  if  you  want  to  get  that 
paper,  you  can  get  it.  But,  mark  !  There  comes  a  time 
when  you  are  struck  into  what  you  are  now,  and  then  if  you 
want  to  get  that  paper,  you  can't  get  it.  So  it  lies,  long 
years,  in  its  hiding-place.  At  last,  when  we  are  expecting 
Arthur  home  every  day,  and  when  any  day  may  bring  him 
home,  and  it's  impossible  to  say  what  rummaging  he  may 
make  about  the  house,  I  recommend  you  five  thou- 
sand times,  if  you  can't  get  at  it,  to  let  me  get  at  it, 
that  it  may  be  put  in  the  fire.  But  no — no  one  but  you 
knows  where  it  is,  and  that's  power  ;  and,  call  yourself 
whatever  humble  names  you  will,  1  call  you  a  female  Lucifer 
in  appetite  for  power  !  On  a  Sunday  night  Arthur  comes 
home.  He  has  not  been  in  this  room  ten  minutes,  when  he 
speaks  of  his  father's  watch.  You  know  very  well  that  the 
Do  not  forget,  at  the  time  when  his  father  sent  that  watch 
to  you,  could  only  mean,  the  rest  of  the  story  being  then  all 
dead  and  over,  do  not  forget  the  suppression.  Make  resti- 
tution !  Arthur's  ways  have  frightened  you  a  bit,  and  the 
paper  shall  be  burned  after  all.  So,  before  that  jumping  jade 
and  Jezebel,"  Mr.  Flintwinch  grinned  at  his  wife,  '^  has  got 
you  into  bed,  you  at  last  tell  me  where  you  have  put  the 
paper,  among  the  old  ledgers  in  the  cellars,  where  Arthur 
himself  went  prowling  the  very  next  morning.  But,  it's  not  to 
be  burned  on  a  Sunday  night.  No  ;  you  are  strict,  you  are  ; 
we  must  wait  over  twelve  o'clock,  and  get  into  Monday.  Now, 
all  this  is  a  swallowing  of  me  up  alive,  that  rasps  me  ;   so 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  785 

feeling  a  little  out  of  temper,  and  not  being  as  strict  as  your- 
self, I  take  a  look  at  the  document  before  twelve  o'clock,  to 
refresh  my  memory  as  to  its  appearance — fold  up  one  of  the 
many  yellow  papers  in  the  cellars  like  it — and  afterward, 
when  we  have  got  into  Monday  morning,  and  1  have,  by  the 
light  of  your  lamp,  to  walk  from  you,  lying  on  that  bed  to  this 
grate,  make  a  little  exchange  like,  the  conjurer  and  burn 
accordingly.  My  brother  Ephraim,  the  lunatic-keeper  (I  wish 
he  had  had  himself  to  keep  in  a  straight  waist-coat),  had  had 
many  jobs  since  the  close  of  the  long  job  he  got  from  you,  but 
had  not  done  well.  His  wife  died  (not  that  that  was  much  ; 
mine  might  have  died  instead,  and  welcome),  he  speculated 
unsuccessfully  in  lunatics,  he  got  into  difficulty  about  over- 
roasting a  patient  to  bring  him  to  reason,  and  he  got  into  debt. 
He  was  going  out  of  the  way,  on  what  he  had  been  able  to 
scrape  up,  and  a  trifle  from  me.  He  was  here  that  early 
Monday  morning,  waiting  for  the  tide  ;  in  short,  he  was  going 
to  Antwerp,  where  (I  am  afraid  you'll  be  shocked  at  my  say- 
ing, and  be  damned  to  him  !)  he  made  the  acquaintance  of 
this  gentleman.  He  had  come  a  long  way,  and,  I  thought 
then,  was  only  sleepy  ;  but,  I  suppose  now,  was  drunk.  When 
Arthur's  mother  had  been  under  the  care  of  him  and  his  wife, 
she  had  been  always  writing,  incessantly  writing — mostly  let- 
ters of  confession  to  you,  and  prayers  for  forgiveness.  My 
brother  had  handed,  from  time  to  time,  lots  of  these  sheets  to 
me.  I  thought  I  might  as  well  keep  them  to  myself,  as  have 
them  swallowed  up  alive  too  ;  so  I  kept  them  in  a  box,  look- 
ing over  them  when  I  felt  in  the  humor.  Convinced  that  it 
was  advisable  to  get  the  paper  out  of  the  place  with  Arthur 
coming  about  it,  I  put  it  into  this  same  box,  and  I  locked  the 
whole  up  with  two  locks,  and  I  trusted  it  to  my  brother  to  take 
away  and  keep,  till  I  should  write  about  it.  I  did  write  about 
it,  and  never  got  an  answer.  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of 
it,  till  this  gentleman  favored  us  with  his  first  visit.  Of  course, 
I  began  to  suspect  how  it  was,  then  ;  and  I  don't  want  his 
word  for  it  now  to  understand,  how  he  gets  his  knowledge  from 
my  papers,  and  your  paper,  and  my  brother's  cognac  and  to- 
bacco talk  (I  wish  he'd  had  to  gag  himself).  Now,  I  have 
only  one  thing  more  to  say,  you  hammer-headed  woman,  and 
that  is,  that  I  haven't  altogether  made  up  my  mind  whether  I 
might,  or  might  not,  have  ever  given  you  any  trouble  about  the 
codicil.  I  think  not  ;  and  that  I  should  have  been  quite 
satisfied  with  knowing  I  had  got  the  better  of  you,  and  that  I 
held  the  power  over  you.     In  the  present  state  of  circum- 


786  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

stances,  I  have  no  more  explanation  to  give  you  till  this  timv, 
to-morrow  night.  So  you  may  as  well,"  said  Mr.  Flintwinch, 
terminating  his  oration  with  a  screw,  "  keep  your  eyes  open 
at  somebody  else,  for  it's  no  use  keeping  'em  open  at  me." 

She  slowly  withdrev/  them  when  he  had  ceased  and 
dropped  her  forehead  on  her  hand.  Her  other  hand  pressed 
hard  upon  the  table,  and  again  the  curious  stir  was  observa- 
ble in  her,  as  if  she  were  going  to  rise. 

*'  This  box  can  never  bring  elsewhere,  the  price  it  will 
bring  here.  This  knowledge  can  never  be  of  the  same  profit 
to  you,  sold  to  any  other  person,  as  sold  to  me.  But  I  have 
not  the  present  means  of  raising  the  sum  you  have  demanded. 
I  have  not  prospered.  What  will  you  take  now,  and  what  at 
mother  time,  and  how  am  I  to  be  assured  of  your  silence  ?" 
.  '^  My  angel,"  said  Rigaud,  "  I  have  said  what  I  will  take, 
and  time  presses.  Before  coming  here,  I  placed  copies  of  the 
most  important  of  these  papers  in  another  hand.  Put  off  the 
time  till  the  Marshalsea  gate  shall  be  shut  for  the  night,  and 
it  will  be  too  late  to  treat.  The  prisoner  will  have  read  them." 

She  put  her  two  hands  to  her  head  again,  uttered  a  loud 
exclamation,  and  started  to  her  feet.  She  staggered  for  a 
moment,  as  if  she  would  have  fallen  ;  then  stood  firm. 

"  Say  what  you  mean.     Say  what  you  mean,  man  !  " 

Before  her  ghostly  figure,  so  long  unused  to  its  erect  atti- 
tude, and  so  stiffened  in  it,  Rigaud  fell  back  and  dropped 
his  voice.  It  was,  to  all  the  three,  almost  as  if  a  dead  woman 
had  arisen. 

^*  Miss  Dorrit,"  answered  Rigaud,  "  the  little  niece  of 
Monsieur  Frederick,  whom  I  have  known  across  the  water,  is 
attached  to  the  prisoner.  Miss  Dorrit,  little  niece  of  Monsieur 
Frederick,  watches  at  this  moment  over  the  prisoner,  who  is 
ill.  For  her  I  with  my  own  hands  left  a  packet  at  the  prison, 
on  my  way  here,  with  a  letter  of  instruction,  ^  for  his  sake  ' — 
she  will  do  any  thing  for  his  sake — to  keep  it  without  breaking 
the  seal,  in  case  of  it  being  reclaimed  before  the  hour  of 
shutting  up  to-night — if  it  should  not  be  reclaimed  before  the 
ringing  of  the  prison  bell,  to  give  it  to  him  ;  and  it  incloses  a 
second  copy  for  herself,  which  he  must  give  to  her.  What ! 
1  don't  trust  myself,  among  you,  now  we  have  got  so  far,  with- 
out giving  my  secret  a  second  life.  And  as  to  its  not  bring- 
ing me  elsewhere,  the  price  it  will  bring  here,  say  then, 
madame,  have  you  limited  and  settled  the  price  the  little  niece 
will  give — for  his  sake — to  hush  it  up  ?  Once  more  I  say, 
time  presses.     The  packet  not  reclaimed  before  the  ringing 


LITTLE   DORRIT.  787 

of  the  bell  to-night,  you  can  not  buy.  I  sell,  then,  to  the 
little  girl  !  " 

Once  more  the  stir  and  struggle  in  her,  and  she  ran  to  a 
closet,  tore  the  door  open,  took  down  a  hood  or  shawl,  and 
wTapped  it  over  her  head.  A  ff ery,  who  had  watched  her  in 
terror,  darted  to  her  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  caught  hold 
of  her  dress,  and  went  on  her  knees  to  her. 

*' Don't,  don't,  don't!  What  are  you  doing?  Where  are 
you  going  ?  You're  a  fearful  woman,  but  I  don't  bear  you 
no  ill-will.  I  can  do  poor  Arthur  no  good  now,  that  I  see; 
and  you 'needn't  be  afraid  of  me.  I'll  keep  your  secret. 
Don't  go  out,  you'll  fall  dead  in  the  street.  Only  promise 
me,  that,  if  it's  the  poor  thing  that's  kept  here  secretly,  you'll 
let  me  take  charge  of  her  and  be  her  nurse.  Only  promise 
me  that,  and  never  be  afraid  of  me." 

Mrs.  Clennam  stood  still  for  an  instant,  at  the  height  of 
her  rapid  haste,  saying  in  stern  amazement  : 

"  Kept  here  ?  She  has  been  dead  a  score  of  years  or  more. 
Ask  Flintwinch — ask  Aim.  They  can  both  tell  you  that  she 
died  w^hen  Arthur  w^ent  abroad." 

'^  So  much  the  worse,'*  said  Affery,  with  a  shiver,  *'  for  she 
haunts  the  house,  then.  Who  else  rustles  about  it,  making 
signals  by  dropping  dust  so  softly  ?  Who  else  comes  and 
goes,  and  marks  the  w^alls  with  long  crooked  touches,  when 
we  are  all  a-bed  ?  Who  else  holds  the  door  sometimes  ? 
But  don't  you  go  out — don't  go  out!  Mistress,  you'll  die  in 
the  street!  " 

Her  mistress  only  disengaged  her  dress  from  the  beseech- 
ing hands,  said  to  Rigaud,  "  Wait  here  till  I  come  back!  " 
and  ran  out  of  the  room.  They  saw  her,  from  the  window, 
run  wildly  through  the  court-yard  and  out  at  the  gateway. 

For  a  few  moments  they  stood  motionless.  Affery  was 
the  first  to  move,  and  she,  wringing  her  hands,  pursued  her 
mistress.  Next,  Jeremiah  Flintwinch,  slowly  backing  to  the 
door,  with  one  hand  in  a  pocket,  and  the  other  rubbing  his 
chin,  twisted  himself  out  in  his  reticent  way,  speechlessly. 
Rigaud,  left  alone,  composed  himself  upon  the  window-seat 
of  the  open  window,  in  the  old  Marseilles  jail  attitude.  He 
laid  his  cigarettes  and  fire-box  ready  to  his  hand,  and  fell  to 
smoking. 

'*  Whoof !  Almost  as  dull  as  the  infernal  old  jail.  Warmer, 
but  almost  as  dismal.  Wait  till  she  comes  back  ?  Yes,  cer- 
tainly ;  but  where  is  she  gone,  and  how  long  will  she  be  gone  ? 
No  matter  !  Rigaud  Lagnier  Blandois,  my  amiable  subject, 
you  will  get  your  money.     You  will   enrich  yourself.     You 


788  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

have  lived  a  gentleman;  you  will  die  a  gentleman.  You  tri- 
umph, my  little  boy  ;  but  it  is  your  character  to  triumph. 
Whoof!" 

In  the  hour  of  his  triumph,  his  mustache  went  up  and  his 
nose  came  down,  as  he  ogled  a  great  beam  over  his  head 
with  particular  satisfaction. 


CHAPTER   XXXL 

CLOSED. 

The  sun  had  set,  and  the  streets  were  dim  in  the  dusty 
twilight,  when  the  figure  so  long  unused  to  them  hurried  on 
its  way.  In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  old  house, 
it  attracted  little  attention,  for  there  were  only  a  few  strag- 
gling people  to  notice  it  ;  but,  ascending  from  the  river,  by 
the  crooked  ways  that  led  to  London  Bridge,  and  passing 
into  the  great  main  road,  it  became  surrounded  by  astonish- 
ment. 

Resolute  and  wild  of  look,  rapid  of  foot,  and  yet  weak  and 
uncertain,  conspicuously  dressed  in  its  black  garments  and 
with  its  hurried  head-covering,  gaunt  and  of  an  unearthly 
paleness,  it  pressed  forward,  taking  no  more  heed  of  the 
throng  than  a  sleep-walker.  More  remarkable  by  being  so 
removed  from  the  crowd  it  was  among,  than  if  it  had  been 
lifted  on  a  pedestal  to  be  seen,  the  figure  attracted  all  eyes. 
Saunterers  pricked  up  their  attention  to  observe  it ;  busy 
people,  crossing  it,  slackened  their  pace  and  turned  their 
heads;  companions  pausing  and  standing  aside,  whispered 
one  another  to  look  at  this  spectral  woman  w^ho  was  coming 
by  ;  and  the  sweep  of  the  figure  as  it  passed  seemed  to  create 
a  vortex,  drawing  the  most  idle  and  most  curious  after  it. 

Made  giddy  by  the  turbulent  irruption  of  this  multitude  of 
staring  faces  into  her  cell  of  years,  by  the  confusing  sensation 
of  being  in  the  air,  and  the  yet  more  confusing  sensation  of  be- 
ing afoot,  by  the  unexpected  changes  in  half-remembered  ob- 
jects, and  the  want  of  likeness  between  the  controllable  pict- 
ures her  imagination  had  often  drawn  of  the  life  from  which 
she  was  secluded,  and  the  overwhelming  rush  of  reality,  she 
held  her  way  as  if  she  were  environed  by  distracting  thoughts, 
rather  than  by  external  humanity  and  observation.  But, 
having  crossed  the  bridge,  and  gone  some  distance  straight 
onward,  she  remembered  that  she  must  ask  for  a  direction  ; 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  789 

and  it  was  only  then,  when  she  stopped  and  turned  to  look 
about  her  for  a  promising  place  of  inquiry,  that  she  found 
herself  surrounded  by  an  eager  glare  of  faces. 

"  Why  are  you  encircling  me  ? "  she  asked,  trembling. 

None  of  those  who  were  nearest  answered  :  but  from  the 
outer  ring  there  arose  a  shrill  cry  of  "  'Cause  you're   mad  !  " 

"  I  am  as  sane  as  any  one  here.  I  want  to  find  Marshal- 
sea  }ij-ison.*' 

The  shrill  outer  circle  again  retorted,  '  Then  that  *ud  show 
you  was  mad,  if  nothing  else  did,  'cause  it's  right  opposite!  " 

A  short,  mild,  quiet-looking  young  man  made  his  way 
through  to  her,  as  a  whooping  ensued  on  this  reply,  and 
said  :  *'  Was  it  the  Marshalsea  you  wanted  ?  I'm  going  on 
duty  there.     Come  across  with  me." 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  he  took  her  over  the 
way  ;  the  crowd,  rather  injured  by  the  near  prospect  of 
losing  her,  pressing  before  and  behind  and  on  either  side, 
and  recommending  an  adjournment  to  Bedlam.  After  a 
momentary  whirl  in  the  outer  court-yard,  the  prison-door 
opened,  and  shut  upon  them.  Li  the  lodge,  which  seemed 
by  contrast  with  the  outer  noise  a  place  of  refuge  and  peace, 
a  yellow  lamp  was  already  striving  with  the  prison  shadow^s. 

^*  Why,  John  !  "  said  the  turnkev  who  admitted  them. 
"  What  is  this  ?  " 

V "  Nothing,  father  ;  only  this  lady,  not  knowing  her  way 
and  being  badgered  by  the  boys.  Who  did  you  want, 
ma'am  ?  " 

**  Miss  Dorrit.     Is  she  here  ?  '* 

The  young  man  became  more  interested.  "  Yes,  she  is 
here.     What  might  your  name  be  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Clennam." 

"  Mr.  Clennam 's  mother  ?  *' 

She  pressed  her  lips  together  and  hesitated.  "  Yes.  She 
had  better  be  told  it  is  his  mother." 

"  You  see,"  said  the  young  man,  "  the  marshal's  family 
living  in  the  country  at  present,  the  marshal  has  given  Miss 
Dorrit  one  of  the  rooms  in  his  house,  to  use  when  she  likes. 
Don't  you  think  you  had  better  come  up  there,  and  let  me 
bring  Miss  Dorrit  ?  " 

She  signified  her  assent,  and  he  unlocked  a  door  and  con- 
ducted her  up  a  side  staircase  into  a  dwelling-house  above. 
He  showed  her  into  a  darkening  room,  and  left  her.  The 
room  looked  down  into  the  darkening  prison-yard,  with  its 
inmates  strolling  here  and  there,   leaning  out  of  windows, 


790  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

communing  as  much  apart  as  they  could  with  friends  who 
were  going  away,  and  generally  wearing  out  their  imprison- 
ment as  they  best  might  that  summer  evening.  The  air  was 
heavy  and  hot  ;  the  closeness  of  the  place  oppressive  ;  and 
from  without  there  arose  a  rush  of  free  sounds,  like  the  jar- 
ring memory  of  such  things  in  a  headache  and  heartache. 
She  stood  at  the  window,  bewildered,  looking  down  into  this 
prison  as  it  were  out  of  her  own  different  prison,  when  a  soft 
word  or  two  of  surprise  made  her  start,  and  Little  Dorrit 
stood  before  her. 

*'  Is  is  possible,  Mrs.  Clennam,  that  you  are  so  happily  re- 
covered as " 

Little  Dorrit  stopped,  for  there  was  neither  happiness  nor 
health  in  the  face  that  turned  to  her. 

"  This  is  not  recovery  ;  it  is  not  strength  ;  I  don't  know 
what  it  is."  With  an  agitated  wave  of  her  hand,  she  put 
all  that  aside.  "  You  have  had  a  packet  left  with  you, 
which  you  were  to  give  to  Arthur  if  it  was  not  reclaimed 
before  this  place  closed  to-night  ?** 

"Yes."  ^ 

"  I  reclaim  it." 

Little  Dorrit  took  it  from  her  bosom  and  gave  it  into  her 
hand,  which  remained  stretched  out,  after  receiving  it. 

*'  Have  you  any  idea  of  its  contents  ?  " 

Frightened  by  her  being  there,  with  that  new  power  ^of 
movement  in  her,  which,  as  she  said  herself,  was  no.t  strength, 
and  which  was  unreal  to  look  upon  as  though  a  picture 
or  a  statue  had  been  animated,  Little  Dorrit  answered, 
"  No." 

"  Read  them." 

Little  Dorrit  took  the  pa^cket  from  the  still  outstretched 
hand,  and  broke  the  seal.  Mrs.  Clennam  then  gave  her  the 
inner  packet  that  was  addressed  to  herself,  and  held  the  other. 
The  shadow  of  the  wall  and  of  the  prison  buildings,  which 
made  the  room  somber  at  noon,  made  it  too  dark  to  read  there, 
with  the  dusk  deepening  apace,  save  in  the  window.  In  the 
window,  where  a  little  of  the  bright  summer  evening  sky 
could  shine  upon  her,  Little  Dorrit  stood,  and  read.  After 
a  broken  exclamation  or  so  of  wonder  and  of  terror,  she  read 
in  silence.  When  she  had  finished,  she  looked  round,  and 
her  old  mistress  bowed  herself  before  her. 

"  You  know,  now,  what  I  have  done." 

*^  I  think  so.  I  am  afraid  so  ;  though  my  mind  is  so  hur- 
ried, and  so  sorry,  and  has  so  much  to  pity,  that  it  has  not 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  791 

been  able  to  follow  all  I  have  read,"  said  Little  Dorrit 
tremulously. 

"  I  will  restore  to  you  what  I  have  withheld  from  you. 
Forgive  me.     Can  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

^'  I  can,  and  heaven  knows  I  do  !  Do  not  kiss  my  dress 
and  kneel  to  me  ;  you  are  too  old  to  kneel  to  me  ;  I  forgive 
you  freely,  without  that." 

"  I  have  more  to  ask  yet.** 

**  Not  in  that  posture,"  said  Little  Dorrit.  *'  It  is  unnatu- 
ral to  see  your  gray  hair  lower  than  mine.  Pray  rise  ; 
let  me  help  you."  With  that  she  raised  her  up,,  and  stood 
rather  shrinking  from  her,  but  looking  at  her  earnestly. 

**The  great  petition  that  I  make  to  you  (there  is  another 
which  grows  out  of  it),  the  great  supplication  that  I  address 
to  your  merciful  and  gentle  heart,  is,  that  you  will  not  dis- 
close this  to  Arthur  until  I  am  dead.  If  you  think,  when 
you  have  had  time  for  consideration,  that  it  can  do  him 
any  good  to  know  it  while  I  am  yet  alive,  then  tell  him. 
But  you  will  not  think  that  ;  and  in  such  case,  will  you 
promise  me  to  spare  me  until  I  am  dead  ? " 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  and  what  I  have  read  has  so  confused 
my  thoughts,"  returned  Little  Dorrit,  "  that  I  can  scarcely 
give  you  a  steady  answer.  If  I  should  be  quite  sure  that  to 
be  acquainted  with  it  will  do  Mr.  Clennam  no  good " 

*'  I  know  you  are  attached  to  him,  and  will  make  him  the 
first  consideration.  It  is  right  that  he  should  be  the  first 
consideration.  I  ask  that.  But,  having  regarded  him,  and 
still  finding  that  you  may  spare  me  for  the  little  time  I  shall 
remain  on  earth,  will  you  do  it  ?  " 

"I  will."  .     - 

"  God  bless  you  !  " 

She  stood  in  the  shadow  so  that  she  was  only  a  veiled 
form  to  Little  Dorrit 'in  the  light;  but  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  in  saying  those  three  grateful  words,  was  at  once  fer- 
vent and  broken.  Broken  by  emotion  as  unfamiliar  to  her 
frozen  eyes  as  action  to  her  frozen  limbs. 

"  You  will  wonder,  perhaps,"  she  said  in  a  stronger  tone, 
"  that  I  can  better  bear  to  be  known  to  you  whom  I  have 
wronged,  than  to  the  son  of  my  enemy  who  wronged  me. — 
For  she  did  wrong  me  !  She  not  only  sinned  grievously 
against  the  Lord,  but  she  wronged  me.  What  Arthur's 
father  was  to  me,  she  made  him.  From  our  marriage  day  I 
was  his  dread,  and  that  she  made  me.  I  was  the  scourge 
of  both,  and  that  is   referable  to  her.     You  love  Arthur  (I 


792  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

can  see  the  blush  upon  your  face  ;  may  it  be  the  dawn  of 
happier  days  to  both  of  you  !),  and  you  will  have  thought 
already  that  he  is  as  merciful  and  kind  as  you,  and  why  do 
I  not  trust  myself  to  him  as  soon  as  to  you.  Have  you  not 
thought  so  ?" 

'^  No  thought,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  **can  be  quite  a  stranger 
to  my  heart,  that  springs  out  of  the  knowledge  that  Mr. 
Clennam  is  always  to  be  relied  upon  for  being  kind  and 
generous  and  good." 

''  I  do  not  doubt  it.  Yet  Arthur  is,  of  the  whole  world,  the 
one  person  from  whom  I  would  conceal  this,  while  I  am  in 
it.  I  kept  over  him  as  a  child,  in  the  days  of  his  first  remem- 
brance, my  restraining  and  correcting  hand.  I  was  stern  with 
him,  knowing  that  the  transgressions  of  the  parents  are  vis- 
ited on  their  offspring,  and  that  there  was  an  angry  mark 
upon  him  at  his  birth.  I  have  sat  with  him  and  his  father, 
seeing  the  weakness  of  his  father  yearning  to  unbend  to 
him  ;  and  forcing  it  back,  that  the  child  might  work  out  his 
release  in  bondage  and  hardship.  I  have  seen  him,  with  his 
mother's  face,  looking  up  at  me  in  awe  from  his  httle  books, 
and  trying  to  soften  me  with  his  mother's  ways  that  hard- 
ened me." 

The  shrinking  of  her  auditress  stopped  her  for  a  moment 
in  her  flow  of  words,  delivered  in  a  retrospective  gloomy 
voice. 

*'  For  his  good.  Not  for  the  satisfaction  of  my  injury. 
What  was  I,  and  what  was  the  worth  of  that,  before  the  curse 
of  heaven  ?  I  have  seen  that  child  grow  up  ;  not  to  be  pious 
in  a  chosen  way  (his  mother's  offense  lay  too  heavy  on  him 
for  that),  but  still  to  be  just  and  upright,  and  to  be  submissive 
to  me.  He  never  loved  me,  as  I  once  half-hoped  he  might — 
so  frail  we  are,  and  so  do  the  corrupt  affections  of  the  flesh 
war  with  our  trusts  and  tasks  ;  but  he  always  respected  me 
and  ordered  himself  dutifully  to  me.  He  does  to  this  hour. 
With  an  empty  place  in  his  heart  that  he  has  never  known 
the  meaning  of,  he  has  turned  away  from  me,  and  gone  his 
separate  road  ;  but  even  that  he  has  done  considerately  and 
with  deference.  These  have  been  his  relations  toward  me. 
Yours  have  been  of  a  much  slighter  kind,  spread  over  a 
much  shorter  time.  When  you  have  sat  at  your  needle  in 
my  room,  you  have  been  in  fear  of  me,  but  you  have  sup- 
posed me  to  have  been  doing  you  a  kindness  ;  you  are  better 
informed  now,  and  know  me  to  have  done  you  an  injury. 
Your  misconstruction  and  misunderstanding  of  the  cause  in 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  793 

which,  and  the  motives  with  which  I  have  worked  out  this 
work,  is  lighter  to  endure  than  this  would  be.  I  would  not, 
for  any  worldly  recompense  I  can  imagine,  have  him  in  a 
moment,  however  blindly,  throw  me  down  from  the  station 
I  have  held  before  him  all  his  life,  and  change  me  altogether^ 
into  something  he  would  cast  out  of  his  respect,  and  think 
detected  and  exposed.  Let  him  do  it,  if  it  must  be  done, 
when  I  am  not  here  to  see  it.  Let  me  never-feel,  while  I 
am  still  alive,  that  I  die  before  his  face,  and  utterly  perish 
away  from  him,  like  one  consumed  by  lightning  and  swal- 
lowed by  an  ear-thquake." 

Her  pride  was  very  strong  in  her,  the  pain  of  it  and  of  her 
old  passions  was  very  sharp  with  her,  when  she  thus  ex- 
pressed herself.     Not  less  so,  when  she  added  : 

^*  Even  now,  I  see  you  shrink  from  me,  as  if  I  had  been 
cruel." 

Little  Dorrit  could  not  gainsay  it.  She  tried  not  to 
show  it,  but  she  recoiled  with  dread  from  the  state  of 
Tnind  that  had  burned  so  fiercely  and  lasted  so  long.  It 
presented  itself  to  her  with  no  sophistry  upon  it,  in  its  own 
plain  nature. 

*'I  nave  done,"  said  Mrs.  Clennam,  "what  it  was  given  to 
me  ro  do.  I  have  set  myself  against  evil  ;  not  against  good. 
I  have  been  an  insirument  of  severity  against  sin.  Have  not 
mere  sinners  like  myself  been  commissioned  to  lay  it  low  in 
all  time?" 

*'In  all  time?"  repeated  Little  Dorrit. 

"  Even  if  my  owi^  wrong  had  prevailed  with  me,  and  my 
own  vengeance  had  moved  me,  could  I  have  found  no  justifi- 
cation ?  None  in  th^  old  days  when  the  innocent  perished 
with  the  guilty,  a  thousand  to  one  ?  When  the  wrath  of  the 
hater  of  the  unrighteods  was  not  slacked  even  in  blood,  and 
yet  found  favor? " 

''Oh,  Mrs.  Clennam,  Mrs.  Clennam,"  said  Little  Dorrit, 
''  angry  feelings  and  unforgiving  deeds  are  no  comfort  and 
no  guide  to  you  and  mc.  My  life  has  been  passed  in  this 
poor  prison,  and  my  teaching  has  been  very  defective  ;  but 
let  me  implore  you  to  remember  later  and  better  days.  Be 
guided  only  by  the  healer  of  the  sick,  the  raiser  of  the  dead, 
the  friend  of  all  who  were  afflicted  and  forlorn,  the  patient 
Master  who  shed  tears  ot  compassion  of  our  infirmities.  We 
can  not  but  be  right  if  we  put  all  the  rest  away,  and  do  every 
thing  in  remembrance  of  Him.  There  is  no  vengeance  and 
no  infliction  of  suffering  m  His  life,  I  am  sure.     There  can 


794  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

be  no  confusion  in  following  Him,  and  seeking  for  no  other 
footsteps,  I  am  certain  !  " 

In  the  softened  light  of  the  window,  looking  from  the 
scene  of  her  early  trials  to  the  shining  sky,  she  was  not 
in  stronger  opposition  to  the  black  figure  in  the  shade, 
than  the  life  and  doctrine  on  which  she  rested  were  to  that 
figure's  history.  It  bent  its  head  low  again,  and  said  not 
a  word.  It  remained  thus,  until  the  first  warning  bell  began 
to  ring. 

*'  Hark  ? "  cried  Mrs.  Clennam,  starting,  "  I  said  I  had 
another  petition.  It  is  one  that  does  not  a;dmit  of  delay. 
The  man  who  brought  you  this  packet  and  possesses  these 
proofs,  is  now  waiting  at  my  house,  to  be  bought  off.  I  can 
keep  this  from  Arthur,  only  by  buying  him  off.  He  asks  a 
large  sum  ;  more  than  I  can  get  together  to  pay  him,  with- 
out having  time.  He  refuses  to  make  any  abatement,  be- 
cause his  threat  is,  that  if  he  fails  with  me  he  Mall  come  to 
you.  Will  you  return  with  me  and  show  him  that  you 
already  know  it  ?  Will  you  return  with  me  and  try  to  pre- 
vail with  him  ?  Will  you  come  and  help  me  with  him  ?  Do 
not  refuse  what  I  ask  in  Arthur's  name,  though  I  dare  not 
ask  it  for  Arthur's  sake  !  '* 

Little  Dorrit  yielded  willingly.  She  glided  away  into  the 
prison  for  a  few  moments,  returned,  and  said  she  was  ready 
to  go.  They  went  out  by  another  staircase,  avoiding  the 
lodge  ;  and  coming  into  the  front  court-yard,  now  all  quiet 
and  deserted,  gained  the  street. 

It  was  one  of  those  summer  evenings  when  there  is  no 
greater  darkness  than  a  long  twilight.  The  vista  of  street  and 
bridge  was  plain  to  see,  and  the  sky  was  serene  and  beautiful. 
People  stood  and  sat  at  their  doors,  playing  with  children  and 
enjoying  the  evening  ;  numbers  were  walking  for  air  ;  the 
worry  of  the  day  had  almost  worried  itself  out,  and  few  but 
themselves  were  hurried.  As  they  crossed  the  bridge,  the 
clear  steeples  of  the  many  churches  looked  as  if  they  had 
advanced  out  of  the  murk  that  usually  enshrouded  them  and 
come  much  nearer.  The  smoke  that  rose  into  the  sky  had 
lost  its  dingy  hue  and  taken  a  brightness  upon  it.  The  beau- 
ties of  the  sunset  had  not  faded  from  the  long  light  films  of 
cloud  that  lay  at  peace  in  the  horizon.  From  a  radiant 
center,  over  the  whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  tranquil 
firmament,  great  shoots  of  light  streamed  among  the  early 
stars,  like  signs  of  the  blessed  later  covenant  of  peace  and 
hope  that  changed  the  crown  of  thorns  into  a  glory. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  795 

Less  remarkable,  now  that  she  was  not  alone  and  it  was 
darker,  Mrs.  Clennam  hurried  on  at  Little  Dorrit's  side, 
unmolested.  They  left  the  great  thoroughfare  at  the  turn- 
ing by  which  she  had  entered  it,  and  wound  their  way  down 
among  the  silent,  empty,  cross-streets.  Their  feet  were  at 
the  gateway,   when   there  was  a  sudden  noise  like  thunder. 

*^  What  was  that!  Let  us  make  haste  in,"  cried  Mrs. 
Clennam. 

They  were  in  the  gateway.  Little  Dorrit,  with  a  piercing 
cry,  held  her  back. 

In  one  swift  instant  the  old  house  was  before  them,  with 
the  man  lying  smoking  in  the  window  ;  another  thundering 
sound,  and  it  heaved,  surged  outward,  opening  asunder  in 
fifty  places,  collapsed,  and  fell.  Deafened  by  the  noise, 
stifled,  choked,  and  blinded  by  the  dust,  they  hid  their  faces 
and  stood  rooted  to  the  spot.  The  dust  storm,  driven 
between  them  and  the  placid  sky,  parted  for  a  moment  and 
showed  them  the  stars.  As  they  looked  up,  wildly  crying 
for  help,  the  great  pile  of  chimneys,  which  was  then  alone 
left  standing,  like  a  tower  in  a  whirlwind,  rocked,  broke,  and 
hailed  itself  down  upon  the  heap  of  ruin,  as  if  every  tumbling 
fragment  were  intent  on  burying  the  crushed  wretch  deeper. 

So  blackened  by  the  flying  particles  of  rubbish  as  to  De 
unrecognizable,  they  ran  back  from  the  gateway  into  the 
street  crying  and  shrieking.  There,  Mrs.  Clennam  dropped 
upon  the  stones  ;  and  she  never  from  that  hour  moved  so 
much  as  a  finger  again,  or  had  the  power  to  speak  one 
word.  For  upward  of  three  years  she  reclined  in  her 
wheeled  chair,  looking  attentively  at  those  about  her,  and 
appearing  to  understand  what  they  said  ;  but  the  rigid  silence 
she  had  so  long  held  was  evermore  enforced  upon  her,  and, 
except  that  she  could  move  her  eyes  and  faintly  express  a 
negative  and  affirmative  with  her  head,  she  lived  and  died  a 
statue. 

Affery  had  been  looking  for  them  at  the  prison,  and  had 
caught  sight  of  them  at  a  distance  on  the  bridge.  She  came 
up  to  receive  her  old  mistress  in  her  arms,  to  help  to  carry 
her  into  a  neighboring  house,  and  to  be  faithful  to  her. 
The  mystery  of  the  noises  was  out  now  ;  Affery,  like 
greater  people,  had  always  been  right  in  her  facts,  and  always 
wrong  in  the  theories  she  deduced  from  them. 

When  the  storm  of  dust  had  cleared  away  and  the  summer 
night  was  calm  again,  numbers  of  people  choked  up  every 
avenue   of  access,   and  parties  of  diggers  were  formed  to 


796  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

relieve  one  another  in  digging  among  the  ruins.  There  had 
been  a  hundred  people  in  the  house  at  the  time  of  its  fall, 
there  had  been  fifty,  there  had  been  fifteen,  there  had  been 
two.  Rumor  finally  settled  the  number  at  two,  the 
foreigner  and  Mr.  Flintwinch. 

The  diggers  dug  all  through  the  short*  night  by  flaring 
pipes  of  gas,  and  on  a  level  with  the  early  sun,  and  deeper 
and  deeper  below  it  as  it  rose  into  its  zenith,  and  aslant  of 
it  as  it  declined,  and  on  a  level  with  it  again  as  it  departed. 
Sturdy  digging,  and  shoveling,  and  carrying  away,  in  carts, 
barrows,  and  baskets,  went  on  without  intermission,  by 
night  and  by  day  ;  but  it  was  night  for  the  second  time 
when  they  found  the  dirty  heap  of  rubbish  that  had  been 
the  foreigner,  before  his  head  had  been  shivered  to  atoms, 
like  so  much  glass,  by  the  great  beam  that  lay  upon  him, 
crushing  him. 

Still,  they  had  not  come  upon  Flintwinch  yet ;  so,  the 
sturdy  digging  and  shoveling  and  carrying  away  went  on 
without  intermission  by  night  and  by  day.  It  got  about 
that  the  old  house  had  had  famous  cellarage  (which  indeed 
was  true),  and  that  Flintwinch  had  been  in  a  cellar  at  that 
moment,  or  had  had  time  to  escape  into  one,  and  that  he  was 
safe  under  its  strong  arch,  and  even  that  he  had  been  heard 
to  cry,  in  hollow,  subterranean,  suffocated  notes,  *'  Here  I 
am  !  "  At  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  town  it  was  even 
known  that  the  excavators  had  been  able  to  open  a  commu- 
nica  :ion  with  him  through  a  pipe,  and  that  he  had  received 
both  soup  and  brandy  by  that  channel,  and  that  he  had  said 
with  admirable  fortitude  that  he  was  All  right,  my  lads,  with 
the  exception  of  his  collar-bone.  But  the  digging  and 
shoveling  and  carrying  away  went  on  without  intermission, 
until  the  ruins  were  all  dug  out,  and  the  cellars  opened  to 
the  light  ;  and  still  no  Flintwinch,  living  or  dead,  all  right, 
or  all  wrong,  had  been  turned  up  by  pick  or  spade. 

It  began,  then,  to  be  perceived  that  Flintwinch  had  not 
been  there  at  the  time  of  the  fall  ;  and  it  ^>egan  then  to  be 
perceived  that  he  had  been  rather  busy  elsewhere,  converting 
securities  into  as  much  money  as  could  be  got  for  them  on 
the  shortest  notice,  and  turning  to  his  own  exclusive  account, 
his  authority  to  act  for  the  firm.  Affery,  remembering  that 
the  clever  one  had  said  he  would  explain  himself  further  in 
four-and-twenty  hours'  time,  determined  for  her  part  that 
his  taking  himself  off  within  that  period  with  all  he  could 
get,  was  the  final    satisfactory   sum   and  substance  of  his 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  797 

promised  explanation  ;  but  she  held  her  peace,  devoutly 
thankful  to  be  quit  of  him.  As  it  seemed  reasonable  to 
conclude  that  a  man  who  had  never  been  buried  could  not 
be  unburied,  the  diggers  gave  him  up  when  their  task  was 
done,  and  did  not  dig  down  for  him  into  the  depths  of  the 
earth. 

This  was  taken  in  ill  part  by  a  great  many  people,  who 
persisted  in  believing  that  Flintwinch  was  lying  somewhere 
among  the  London  geological  formations.  Nor  v/as  their 
belief  much  shaken  by  repeated  intelligence  which  came 
over  in  course  of  time,  that  an  old  man,  who  wore  the  tie  of 
his  neckcloth  under  one  ear,  and  who  was  very  well  known 
to  be  an  Englishman,  consorted  with  the  Dutchmen  %n  the 
quaint  banks  of  the  canals  at  the  Hague,  and  in  the  drink- 
ing-shops  of  Amsterdam,  under  the  style  and  designation  of 
Mynheer  von  Flyntevynge. 

CHAPTER    XXXIL 

GOING. 

Arthur  continuing  to  lie  very  ill  in  the  Marshalsea,  and 
Mr.  Rugg  descrying  no  break  in  the  legal  sky  affording  a 
hope  of  his  enlargement,  Mr.  Pancks  suffered  desperately 
from  self-reproaches.  If  it  had  not  been  for  those  infalli- 
ble figures  which  proved  that  Arthur,  instead  of  pining  in 
imprisonment,  ought  to  be  promenading  in  a  carriage  and 
pair,  and  that  Mr.  Pancks  instead  of  being  restricted  to  his 
clerkly  wages,  ought  to  have  from  three  to  five  thousand 
pounds  of  his  own,  at  his  immediate  disposal,  that  unhappy 
arithmetician  would  probably  have  taken  to  his  bed,  and 
there  have  made  one  of  the  many  obscure  persons  who  have 
turned  their  faces  to  the  wall  and  died,  as  last  sacrifice  to 
the  late  Mr.  Merdle's  greatness.  Solely  supported  by  his 
unimpugnable  calculations,  Mr.  Pancks,  led  an  unhappy  life; 
constantly  carrying  his  figures  about  with  him  in  his  hat, 
and  not  only  going  over  them  himself  on  every  possible 
occasion,  but  entreating  every  human  being  he  could  lay 
hold  of  to  go  over  them  with  him,  and  observe  what  a  clear 
case  it  was.  Down  in  Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  there  was 
scarcely  an  inhabitant  of  any  note  to  whom  Mr.  Pancks  had 
not  imparted  his  demonstration,  and,  as  figures  are  catching, 
a  kind  of  ciphering  measles  broke  out  in  that  locality,  under 
the  influence  of  which  the  whole  yard  was  light-headed. 


79^  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

The  more  restless  Mr.  Pancks  grew  in  his  mind,  the  mo.e 
impatient  he  became  of  the  patriarch.  In  their  latter  con- 
ferences, his  snorting  had  assumed  an  irritable  sound  which 
boded  the  patriarch  no  good  ;  likewise,  Mr.  Pancks  had  on 
several  occasions  looked  harder  at  the  patriarchal  bumps 
than  was  quite  reconcilable  with  the  fact  of  his  not  being  a 
painter,  or  a  peruke-maker  in  search  of  the  living  model. 

However,  he  steamed  in  and  out  of  his  little  back  dock, 
according  as  he  was  wanted  or  not  wanted  in  the  patriarchal 
presence,  and  business  had  gone  on  in  its  customary  course. 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard  had  been  harrowed  by  Mr.  Pancks, 
and  cropped  by  Mr.  Casby,  at  the  regular  seasons  ;  Mr. 
Pancks  had  taken  all  the  drudgery  and  all  the  dirt  of- the 
business  as  his  share  ;  Mr.  Casby  had  taken  all  the  profits, 
all  the  ethereal  vapor,  and  all  the  moonshine,  as  Ms  share  ; 
and  in  the  form  of  words  which  that  benevolent  beamer 
generally  employed  on  Saturday  evenings,  when  he  twirled 
his  fat  thumbs  after  striking  the  week's  balance,  '^  every 
thing  had  been  satisfactory  to  all  parties — all  parties- satis- 
factory, sir,  to  all  parties." 

The  dock  of  the  steam-tug,  Pancks,  had  a  leaden  roof, 
which  frying  in  the  very  hot  sunshine,  may  have  heated  the 
vessel.  Be  that  as  it  may,  one  glowing  Saturday  evening, 
on  being  hailed  by  the  lumbering  bottle-green  ship,  the  tug 
instantly  came  working  out  of  the  dock  in  a  highly  heated 
condition. 

"  Mr.  Pancks,"  was  the  patriarchal  remark,  "  you  have 
been  remiss,  you  have  been  remiss,  sir." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "    was  the  short  rejoinder. 

The  patriarchal  state,  always  a  state  of  calmness  and  com- 
posure, was  so  particularly  serene  that  evening  as  to  be  pro- 
voking. Every  body  else  within  the  bills  of  mortality  was  hot; 
but  the  patriarch  was  perfectly  cool.  Every  body  was  thirsty, 
and  the  patriarch  was  drinking.  There  was  a  fragrance  of  limes 
or  lemons  about  him  ;  and  he  had  made  a  drink  of  golden 
sherry,  which  shone  in  a  large  tumbler,  as  if  he  were  drink- 
ing the  evening  sunshine.  This  was  bad,  but  not  the  worst. 
The  worst  was,  that  with  his  big  blue  eyes,  and  his  polished 
head,  and  his  long  white  hair,  and  his  bottle-green  legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  terminating  in  his  easy  shoes  easily 
crossed  at  the  instep,  he  had  a  radiant  appearance  of  having 
in  his  extensive  benevolence  made  a  drink  for  the  human 
species,  while  he  himself  wanted  nothing  but  his  own  milk  of 
human  kindness. 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  799 

Wherefore,  Mr.  Pancks  said,  "  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?" 
and  put  his  hair  up  with  both  hands,  in  a  highly  portentous 
manner. 

*^  I  mean,  Mr.  Pancks,  that  you  must  be  sharper  with  the 
people,  sharper  with  the  people,  much  sharper  with  the  peo- 
ple, sir.  You  don't  squeeze  them.  You  don't  squeeze  them. 
Your  receipts  are  not  up  to  the  mark.  You  must  squeeze 
them,  sir,  or  our  connection  will  not  continue  to  be  as  satis- 
factory as  I  could  wish  it  to  be,  to  all  parties.     All  parties." 

^'' Dont  I  squeeze 'em  ?  "  retorted  Mr.  Pancks.  "What 
else  am  I  made  for  ?  " 

"  You  are  made  for  nothing  else,  Mr.  Pancks.  You  are 
made  to  do  your  duty,  but  you  don't  do  your  duty.  You  are 
paid  to  squeeze,  and  you  must  squeeze  to  pay."  The  patri- 
arch so  much  surprised  himself  by  this  brilliant  turn,  after 
Dr.  Johnson,  which  he  had  not  in  the  least  expected  or 
intended,  that  he  laughed  aloud  ;  and  repeated  with  great 
satisfaction,  as  he  twirled  his  thumbs  and  nodded  at  his 
youthful  portrait,  "  Paid  to  squeeze,  sir,  and  must  squeeze 
to  pay.'* 

"  Oh  !  '*  said  Pancks.     "  Any  thing  more  ? " 

*'  Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir.  Something  more.  You  will  please, 
Mr.  Pancks,  to  squeeze  the  yard  again,  the  first  thing  on 
Monday  morning." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Pancks.  "  Ain't  that  too  soon  ?  I  squeezed 
it  dry  to-day." 

"  Nonsense,  sir.     Not  near  the  mark,  not  near  the  mark." 

**  Oh  !  "  said  Pancks,  watching  him  as  he  benevolently 
gulped  down  a  good  draught  of  his  mixture.  "  Any  thing 
more  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir,  something  more.  I  am  not  at  all 
pleased,  Mr.  Pancks,  with  my  daughter  ;  not  at  all  pleased. 
Besides  calling  much  too  often  to  inquire  for  Mrs.  Clennam — 
Mrs.  Clennam,  who  is  not  just  now  in  circumstances  that  are 
by  any  means  calculated  to — to  be  satisfactory  to  all  parties, 
she  goes,  Mr.  Pancks,  unless  I  am  much  deceived,  to  inquire 
for  Mr.  Clennam  in  jail.     In  jail." 

"  He's  laid  up,  you  know,"  said  Pancks.  **  Perhaps  it's 
kind." 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  Mr.  Pancks.  She  has  nothing  to  do  with 
that,  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I  can't  allow  it.  Let  him  pay 
his  debts  and  come  out,  come  out ;  pay  his  debts,  and  come 
out." 

Although  Mr.  Pancks's  hair  was   standing  up  like  strong 


8oo  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

wire,  he  gave  it  another  double-handed  impulse  in  the  perpen- 
dicular direction,  and  smiled  at  his  proprietor  in  a  most  hide- 
ous manner. 

^'  You  will  please  to  mention  to  my  daughter,  Mr.  Pancks, 
that  I  can't  allow  it,  can't  allow  it,"  said  the  patriarch 
blandly. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Pancks.  **  You  couldn't  mention  it  your- 
self ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  no  ;  you  are  paid  to  mention  it,"  the  blunder- 
ing old  booby  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  trying  it 
again,  "  and  you  must  mention  it  to  pay,  mention  it  to 
pay." 

'^  Oh  !  "  said  Pancks.     "  Any  thing  more  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir.  It  appears  to  me,  Mr.  Pancks,  that  you  your- 
self are  too  often  and  too  much  in  that  direction.  I  recom- 
mend you,  Mr.  Pancks,  to  dismiss  from  your  attention  both 
your  own  losses  and  other  people's  losses,  and  to  mind  your 
business,  mind  your  business." 

Mr.  Pancks  acknowledged  the  recommendation  with 
such  an  extraordinarily  abrupt,  short,  and  loud  utterance  of 
the  monosyllable  ^'  Oh  !  "  that  even  the  unwieldly  patriarch 
moved  his  blue  eyes  in  something  of  a  hurry,  to  look  at  him. 
Mr.  Pancks,  with  a  sniff  of  corresponding  intensity,  then 
added,  "  Any  thing  more  ?  " 

"  Not  at  present,  sir,  not  at  present.  I  am  going,"  said 
the  patriarch,  finishing  his  mixture,  and  rising  with  an  amia- 
ble air,  "  to  take  a  little  stroll,  a  little  stroll.  Perhaps  I 
shall  find  you  here  when  I  come  back.  If  not,  sir,  duty, 
duty  ;  squeeze,  squeeze,  squeeze  on  Monday  ;  squeeze  on 
Monday  !  " 

Mr.  Pancks,  after  another  stiffening  of  his  hair,  looked  on 
at  the  patriarchal  assumption  of  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  with 
a  momentary  appearance  of  indecision  contending  with  a 
sense  of  injury.  He  was  also  hotter  than  at  first,  and 
breathed  harder.  But  he  suffered  Mr.  Casby  to  go  out,  with- 
out offering  any  further  remark,  and  then  took  a  peep  at  him 
over  the  little  green  window-blinds.  "  I  thought  so,"  he 
observed.  *'  I  knew  where  you  were  bound  to.  Good  !  " 
He  then  steamed  back  to  his  dock,  put  it  carefully  in 
order,  took  down  his  hat,  looked  round  the  dock,  said 
''  Good-by  !  "  and  puffed  away  on  his  own  account.  He 
steered  straight  for  Mrs.  Plornish's  end  of  Bleeding  Heart 
Yard,  and  arrived  there,  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  hotter  than 
ever. 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  8oi 

At  the  top  of  the  steps,  resisting  Mrs.  Plornish's  invita- 
tions to  come  and  sit  along  with  father  in  Happy  Cottage — 
which  to  his  relief  were  not  so  numerous  as  they  would  have 
been  on  any  other  night  than  Saturday,  when  the  connec- 
tion who  so  gallantly  supported  the  business  with  every  thing 
but  money  gave  their  orders  freely — at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
Mr.  Pancks  remained  until  he  beheld  the  patriarch,  who 
always  entered  the  yard  at  the  other  end,  slowly  advancing, 
beaming,  and  surrounded  by  suitors.  Then  Mr.  Pancks 
descended  and  bore  down  upon  him,  with  his  utmost  pres- 
sure of  steam  on. 

The  patriarch,  approaching  with  his  usual  benignity,  was 
surprised  to  see  Mr.  Pancks,  but  supposed  him  to  have  been 
stimulated  to  an  immediate  squeeze  instead  of  postponing 
that  operation  until  Monday.  The  population  of  the  yard 
were  astonished  at  the  meeting,  for  the  two  powers  had  never 
been  seen  there  together,  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest 
Bleeding  Heart.  But  they  were  overcome  by  unutterable 
amazement,  when  Mr.  Pancks,  going  close  up  to  the  most 
venerable  of  men,  and  halting  in  front  of  the  bottle-green 
waist-coat,  made  a  trigger  of  his  right  thumb  and  forefinger, 
applied  the  same  to  the  brim  of  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  and, 
with  singular  smartness  and  precision,  shot  it  off  the  polished 
head  as  if  it  had  been  a  large  marble. 

Having  taken  this  little  liberty  with  the  patriarchal  per- 
son, Mr.  Pancks  further  astounded  and  attracted  the  Bleed- 
ing H^earts  by  saying  in  an  audible  voice,  "  Now,  you  sugary 
swindler,  I  mean  to  have  it  out  with  you  !  '* 

Mr.  Pancks  and  the  patriarch  were  instantly  the  center  of 
a  press,  all  eyes  and  ears :  windows  were  thrown  open,  and 
door-steps  w^ere  thronged. 

"  What  do  you  pretend  to  be  ?  "  said  Mr.  Pancks.  "  What's 
your  moral  game  ?  What  do  you  go  in  for  }  Benevolence, 
ain't  it  ?  You  benevolent  !  "  Here  Mr.  Pancks,  apparently 
without  the  intention  of  hitting  him,  but  merely  to  relieve  his 
mind  and  expend  his  superfluous  power  in  wholesome  exer- 
cise, aimed  a  blow  at  the  bumpy  head,  which  the  bumpy 
head  ducked  to  avoid.  This  singular  performance  was 
repeated,  to  the  ever-increasing  admiration  of  the  specta- 
tors, at  the  end  of  every  succeeding  article  of  Mr.  Pancks's 
oration. 

"  I  have  discharged  myself  from  your  service,"  said 
Pancks,  "  that  I  may  tell  you  what  you  are.  You're  one  of 
a  lot  of  impostors  that  are  the  worst  lot  of  all  the  lots  to  be  met 


8o2  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

with.  Speaking  as  a  sufferer  by  both,  I  don't  know  that  I 
wouldn't  as  soon  have  the  Merdle  lot  as  your  lot.  You're  a 
driver  in  disguise,  a  screwer  by  deputy,  a  wringer,  and 
squeezer,  and  a  shaver  by  substitute.  You're  a  philan- 
thropic sneak.     You're  a  shabby  deceiver  !  " 

(The  repetition  of  this  performance  at  this  point  was 
received  with  a  burst  of  laughter.) 

^^  Ask  these  good  people  who's  the  hard  man  here. 
They'll  tell  you  Pancks,  I  believe." 

This  was  confirmed  with  cries  of  "  Certainly,"  and 
"  Hear  !  " 

"  But  I  tell  you,  good  people — Casby  !  This  mound  of 
meekness,  this  lump  of  love,  this  bottle-green  smiler,  this  is 
your  driver  !  "  said  Pancks.  ^'  If  you  want  to  see  the  man 
who  would  flay  you  alive— here  he  is  !  Don't  look  for  him 
in  me,  at  thirty  shillings  a  week,  but  look  for  him  in  Casby, 
at  I  don't  know  how  much  a  year  !  " 

**  Good  !  "  cried  several  voices.     *'  Hear  Mr.  Pancks  !  " 

"  Hear  Mr.  Pancks?  "  cried  that  gentleman  (after  repeat- 
ing the  popular  performance).  "  Yes,  I  should  think  so! 
It's  almost  time  to  hear  Mr.  Pancks.  Mr.  Pancks  has  come 
down  into  the  yard  to-night,  on  purpose  that  you  should  hear 
him.     Pancks  is  only  the  works  ;  but  here's   the   winder  !  " 

The  audience  would  have  gone  over  to  Mr.  Pancks,  as  one 
man,  woman,  and  child,  but  for  the  long,  gray,  silken  locks, 
and  the  broad-brimmed  hat. 

"  Here's  the  stop,"  said  Pancks,  ^^  that  sets  the  tune  to  be 
ground.  And  there  is  but  one  tune,  and  its  name  is  grind, 
grind,  grind  !  Here's  the  proprietor,  and  here's  his  grubber. 
Why,  good  people,  when  he  comes  smoothly  spinning  through 
the  yard  to-night,  like  a  slow-going  benevolent  humming-top, 
and  when  you  come  about  him  with  your  complaints  of  the 
grubber,  you  don't  know  what  a  cheat  the  proprietor  is  ! 
What  do  you  think  of  his  showing  himself  to-night,  that  I  may 
have  all  the  blame  on  Monday  ?  What  do  you  think  of  his 
having  had  me  over  the  coals  this  very  evening,  because  I 
don't  squeeze  you  enough  ?  What  do  you  think  of  my  be- 
ing, at  the  present  moment,  under  special  orders  to  squeeze 
you  dry  on  Monday  ? " 

The  reply  was  given  in  a  murmur  of  "  Shame  !  "  and 
"  Shabby !  " 

"  Shabby  !  "  snorted  Pancks.  "  Yes,  I  should  think  so  ! 
The  lot  that  your  Casby  belongs  to,  is  the  shabbiest  of  all 
the  lots.     Setting  their  grubbers  on,  at  a  wretched  pittance, 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  803 

to  do  what  they're  ashamed  and  afraid  to  do  and  pretend  not 
to  do,  but  what  they  will  have  done,  or  give  a  man  no  rest  ! 
Imposing  on  you  to  give  their  grubbers  nothing  but  blame, 
and  to  give  them  nothing  but  credit !  Why  the  worst-look- 
ing cheat  in  all  this  town*who  gets  the  value  of  eighteen- 
pence  under  false  pretenses,  ain't  half  such  a  cheat  as  this 
sign-post  of  The  Casby's  Head  here." 

Cries  of  "  That's  true  !  "  and  ^*  No  more  he  an't  !  " 

^'  And  see  what  you  get  of  these  fellows,  besides,"  said 
Pancks.  "  See  what  more  you  get  of  these  precious  hum- 
ming-tops, revolving  among  you  with  such  smoothness  that 
you've  no  idea  of  the  pattern  painted  on  'em,  or  the  little 
window  in  'em  !  I  wish  to  call  your  attention  to  myself  for 
a  moment.  I  ain't  an  agreeable  style  of  chap,  I  know  that  . 
very  well." 

The  auditory  were  divided  on  this  point  ;  its  more  un- 
compromising members  crying,  "  No,  you  are  not,"  and  its 
politer  materials,  ^^  Yes,  you  are." 

"I  am,  in  general,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  "a  dry,  uncomfort- 
able, dreary  plodder  and  grubber.  That's  your  humble  serv- 
ant. There's  his  full  length  portrait,  painted  by  himself 
and  presented  to  you,  warranted  a  likeness  !  But  what's  a 
man  to  be,  with  such  a  man  as  this  for  his  proprietor  ?  What 
can  be  expected  of  him  ?  Did  any  body  ever  find  boiled 
mutton  and  caper-sauce  growing  in  a  cocoa-nut  ?  " 

None  of  the  Bleeding  Hearts  ever  had,  it  was  very  clear 
from  the  alacrity  of  their  response. 

**  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  '^  and  neither  will  you  find  in 
grubbers  like  myself,  under  proprietors  like  this,  pleasant 
qualities.  I've  been  a  grubber  from  a  boy.  What  has  my 
life  been  ?  Fag  and  grind,  fag  and  grind,  turn  the  wheel, 
turn  the  wheel  !  I  haven't  been  agreeable  to  myself,  and  I 
haven't  been  likely  to  be  agreeable  to  any  body  else.  If  I 
was  a  shilling  a  week  less  useful  in  ten  years'  time,  this  im- 
postor would  give  me  a  shilling  a  week  less  ;  if  as  useful  a 
man  could  be  got  at  sixpence  cheaper,  he  would  be  taken  in 
my  place  at  sixpence  cheaper.  Bargain  and  sale,  bless  you  ! 
Fixed  principles  !  It  is  a  mighty  fine  sign-post,  is  The 
Casby's  Head,"  said  Mr.  Pancks,  surveying  it  with  any 
thing  rather  than  admiration  ;  "  but  the  real  name  of  the 
house  is  the  Sham's  Arms.  Its  motto  is  keep  the  grubber 
always  at  it.  Is  any  gentleman  present,"  said  Mr.  Pancks, 
breaking  off  and  looking  round,  '*  acquainted  with  the  En- 
glish Grammar?" 


8o4  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

Bleeding  Heart  Yard  was  shy  of  claiming  that  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  It's  no  matter,"  said  Mr.  Pancks.  "  I  merely  wish  to 
remark  that  the  task  this  proprietor  has  set  me,  has  been 
never  to  leave  off  conjugating  thfc  imperative  mood  present 
tense  of  the  verb  To  keep  always  at  it.  Keep  thou  always  at 
it.  Let  him  keep  always  at  it.  Keep  we  or  do  we  keep  al- 
ways at  it.  Keep  ye  or  do  ye  or  you  keep  always  at  it.  Let 
them  keep  always  at  it.  Here  is  your  benevolent  patriarch 
of  a  Casby,  and  there  is  his  golden  rule.  He  is  uncommonly 
improving  to  look  at,  and  I  am  not  at  all  so.  He  is  as  sweet 
as  honey,  and  I  am  as  dull  as  ditch-water.  He  provides  the 
pitch,  and  I  handle  it,  and  it  sticks  to  me.  Now,"  said  Mr. 
Pancks,closing  upon  his  late  proprietor  again,  from  whom 
he  had  withdrawn  a  little  for  the  better  display  of  him  to  the 
yard  ;  "  as  I  am  not  accustomed  to  speak  in  public,  and  as  I 
have  made  a  rather  lengthy  speech,  all  circumstances  con- 
sidered, I  .^hall  bring  my  observations  to  a  close  by  request- 
ing you  to  get  out  of  this." 

The  last  of  the  patriarchs  had  been  so  seized  by  assault, 
and  required  so  much  room  to  catch  an  idea  in,  and  so  much 
more  room  to  turn  it  in,  that  he  had  not  a  word  to  offer  in  reply. 
He  appeared  to  be  meditating  some  patriarchal  way  out  of 
his  delicate  position,  when  Mr.  Pancks,  once  more  suddenly 
applying  the  trigger  to  his  hat,  shot  it  off  again  with  his 
former  dexterity.  On  the  preceding  occasion,  one  or  two  of 
the  Bleeding  Heart  Yarders  had  obsequiously  picked  it  up 
and  handed  it  to  its  owner ;  but  Mr.  Pancks  had  now  so 
far  impressed  his  audience,  that  the  patriarch  had  to  turn 
and  stoop  for  it  himself. 

Quick  as  lightning,  Mr.  Pancks,  who,  for  some  moments 
had  had  his  right  hand  in  his  coat  pocket,  whipped  out  a  pair 
of  shears,  swooped  upon  the  patriarch  behind,  and  snipped 
off  short  the  sacred  locks  that  flow^ed  upon  his  shoulders;  In 
a  paroxysm  of  animosity  and  rapidity,  Mr.  Pancks  then  caught 
the  broad-brimmed  hat  out  of  the  astounded  patriarch's 
hand,  cut  it  down  into  a  nlere  stewpan,  and  fixed  it  on  the 
patriarch's  head. 

Before  the  frightful  results  of  this  desperate  action,  Mr. 
Pancks  himself  recoiled  in  consternation.  A  bare-polled, 
goggle-eyed,  big-headed  lumbering  personage  stood  staring 
at  him,  not  in  the  least  impressive,  not  in  the  least  venera- 
ble, who  seemed  to  have  started  out  of  the  earth  to  ask 
what  was  become  of  Casby.     After  staring  at  this  phantom 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  805 

in  return,  in  silent  awe,  Mr.  Pancks  threw  down  his  shears 
and  fled  for  a  place  of  hiding,  where  he  might  lie  sheltered 
from  the  consequences  of  his  crime.  Mr.  Pancks  deemed 
it  prudent  to  use  all  possible  dispatch  in  making  off,  though 
he  was  pursued  by  nothing  but  the  sound  of  laughter  in 
Bleeding  Heart  Yard,  rippling  through  the  air,  and  making 
it  ring  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXHL 

GOING  ! 

The  changes  of  a  fevered  room  are  slow  and  fluctuat- 
ing ;  but  the  changes  of  the  fevered  world  are  rapid  and 
irrevokable. 

It  was  Little  Dorrit's  lot  to  wait  upon  both  kinds  of  change. 
The  Marshalsea  walls,  during;  a  portion  of  every  day,  again 
embraced  her  in  their  shadows  as  their  child  while  she  thought 
for  Clennam,  worked  for  him,  watched  him  and  only  left  him 
still  to  devote  her  utmost  love  and  care  to  him.  Her  part  in  the 
life  outside  the  gate  urged  its  pressing  claims  upon  her,  too, 
and  her  patience  untiringly  responded  to  them.  Here  was 
Fanny,  proud,  fitful,  whimsical,  further  advanced  in  that 
disqualified  state  for  going  into  society  which  had  so  much 
xretted  her  on  the  evening  of  the  tortoise-shell  knife, 
resolved  always  to  want  comfort,  resolved  not  to  be  com- 
forted, resolved  to  be  deeply  wronged,  and  resolved  that 
nobody  should  have  the  audacity  to  think  her  so.  Here 
was  her  brother,  a  weak,  proud,  tipsy,  young  old  man,  shak- 
ing from  head  to  foot,  talking  as  indistinctly  as  if  some  of 
the  money  he  plumed  himself  upon  had  got  into  his  mouth 
and  couldn't  be  got  out,  unable  to  walk  alone  in  any  act  of 
his  life,  and  patronizing  the  sister  whom  he  selfishly  loved 
(he  always  had  that  negative  merit,  ill-starred  and  ill- 
launched  Tip  !)  because  he  suffered  her  to  lead  him.  Here 
was  Mrs.  Merdle  in  gauzy  mourning — the  original  cap 
whereof  had  possibly  been  rent  to  pieces  in  a  fit  of  grief, 
but  had  certainly  yielded  to  a  highly  becoming  article  from 
the  Parisian  market — warring  with  Fanny  foot  to  foot,  and 
breasting  her  with  her  desolate  bosom  every  hour  in  the 
day.  Here  was  poor  Mr.  Sparkler,  not  knowing  how  to 
keep  the  peace  between  them,  but  humbly  inclining  to  the 
opinion  that  they  could  do  no  better   than   agree  that  they 


8o6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

were  both  remarkably  fine  women,  and  that  there  was  no 
nonsense  about  either  of  them — for  which  gentle  recom- 
mendation they  united  in  falling  upon  him  frightfully. 
Then,  too,  here  was  Mrs.  General,  got  home  from  foreign 
parts,  sending  a  prune  and  a  prism  by  post  every  other  day, 
demanding  a  new  testimonial  by  way  of  recommendation  to 
some  vacant  appointment  or  other.  Of  which  remarkable 
gentlewoman  it  may  be  finally  observed,  that  there  surely 
never  was  a  gentlewoman  of  whose  transcendent  fitness  for 
any  vacant  appointment  on  the  face  of  this  earth,  so  many 
people  were  (as  the  warmth  of  her  testimonials  evinced) 
so  perfectly  satisfied — or  who  was  so  very  unfortunate  in 
having  a  large  circle  of  ardent  and  distinguished  admirers, 
who  never  themselves"  happened  to  want  her,  in  any  capa- 
city. 

On  the  first  crash  of  the  eminent  Mr.  Merdle's  decease, 
many  important  persons  had  been  unable  to  determine 
whether  they  should  cut  Mrs.  Merdle,  or  comfort  her.  As 
it  seemed,  however,  essential  to  the  strength  of  their  own 
case  that  they  should  admit  her  to  have  been  cruelly  deceived, 
they  graciously  made  the  admission  and  continued  to  know 
her.  It  followed  that  Mrs.  Merdle,  as  a  woman  of  fashion 
and  good  breeding,  who  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  wiles  of 
a  vulgar  barbarian  (for  Mr.  Merdle  was  found  out  from  the 
crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  the  moment  he 
was  found  out  in  his  pocket),  must  be  actively  championed 
by  her  order,  for  her  order's  sake.  She  returned  this  fealty, 
by  causing  it  to  be  understood  that  she  was  even  more 
incensed  against  the  felonious  shade  of  the  deceased  than 
anybody  else  was  ;  thus,  on  the  whole,  she  came  out  of  her 
furnace  like  a  wise  woman,  and  did  exceedingly  well. 

Mr.  Sparkler's  lordship  was  fortunately  one  of  those 
shelves  on  which  a  gentleman  is  considered  to  be  put  away 
for  life,  unless  there  should  be  reason  for  hoisting  him  up 
with  the  Barnacle  crane  to  a  more  lucrative  height.  That 
patriotic  servant  accordingly  stuck  to  his  colors  (the  Stand- 
ard of  four  Quarterings),  and  was  a  perfect  Nelson  in  respect 
of  nailing  them  to  the  mast.  On  the  profits  of  his  intrepidity, 
Mrs.  Sparkler  and  Mrs.  Merdle,  inhabiting  different  floors  of 
the  genteel  little  temple  of  inconvenience  to  which  the  smell 
of  the  day  before  yesterday's  soup  and  coach-horses  was  as 
constant  as  death  to  man,  arrayed  themselves  to  fight  it  out 
in  the  lists  of  society,  sworn  rivals.  And  Little  Dorrit,  seemg 
all  these  things  as  they  developed  themselves,  could  not  but 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  807 

wonder,  anxiously,  into  what  back  corner  of  the  genteel  es- 
tablishment Fanny's  children  would  be  poked  by  and  by,  and 
who  would  take  care  of  those  unborn  little  victims. 

Arthur  being  far  too  ill  to  be  spoken  with  on  subjects  of 
emotion  or  anxiety,  and  his  recovery  greatly  depending  on  the 
repose  into  which  his  weakness  could  be  hushed,  Little 
Dorrit's  sole  reliance  during  this  heavy  period  was  on  Mr. 
Meagles.  He  was  still  abroad  ;  but  she  had  written  to  him, 
through  his  daughter,  immediately  after  first  seeing  Arthur 
in  the  Marshalsea,  and  since,  confiding  her  uneasiness  to 
him  on  the  points  on  which  she  was  most  anxious,  but 
especially  on  one.  To  that  one,  the  continued  absence  of 
Mr.  Meagles  abroad,  instead  of  his  comforting  presence  in 
the  Marshalsea,  was  referable. 

Without  disclosing  the  precise  nature  of  the  documents 
that  had  fallen  into  Rigaud's  hands.  Little  Dorrit  had  con- 
fided the  general  outline  of  that  story  to  Mr.  Meagles,  to 
whom  she  had  also  recounted  his  fate.  The  old  cautious  habits 
of  the  scales  and  scoop  at  once  showed  Mr.  Meagles  the  im- 
portance of  recovering  the  original  papers  ;  wherefore  he 
wrote  back  to  Little  Dorrit,  strongly  confirming  her  in  the 
solicitude  she  expressed  on  that  head,  and  adding  that  he 
would  not  come  over  to  England  *^  without  making  some 
attempt  to  trace  them  out." 

By  this  time,  Mr.  Henry  Gowan  had  made  up  his  mind 
that  it  would  be  agreeable  to  him  not  to  know  the  Meagleses. 
He  was  so  considerate  as  to  lay  no  injunctions  on  his  wife 
in  that  particular  ;  but  he  mentioned  to  Mr.  Meagles  that 
personally  they  did  not  appear  to  him  to  get  on  together, 
and  that  he  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if — politely, 
and  without  any  scene,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort — they  agreed 
that  they  were  the  best  fellows  in  the  world,  but  were  best 
apart.  Poor  Mr.  Meagles,  who  was  already  sensible  that  he 
did  not  advance  his  daughter's  happiness  by  being  constantly 
slighted  in  her  presence,  said  :  "  Good,  Henry  !  You  are  my 
pet's  husband;  you  have  displaced  me,  in  the  course  of  nature; 
if  you  wish  it,  good  !  "  This  arrangement  involved  the  con- 
tingent advantage,  which  perhaps  Henry  Gowan  had  not  fore- 
seen, that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Meagles  were  more  liberal  than 
before  to  their  daughter,  when  their  communication  was  only 
with  her  and  her  young  child  ;  and  that  his  high  spirit  found 
itself  better  provided  with  money,  without  being  under  the 
degrading  necessity  of  knowing  whence  it  came. 

Mr.  Meagles,  at  such  a  period,  naturally  seized  an  occu- 


8o8  LITTLE  DORRLr. 

pation  with  great  ardor.  He  knew  from  his  daughter  the 
various  towns  which  Rigaud  had  been  hauntiifg,  and  the 
various  hotels  at  which  he  had  been  living  for  some  time  back. 
The  occupation  he  set  himself  was,  to  visit  these  with  all  dis- 
cretion and  speed,  and,  in  the  event  of  finding^  anywhere 
that  he  had  left  a  bill  unpaid,  and  a  box  or  parcel  behind,  to 
pay  such  bill,  and  bring  away  such  box  or  parcel. 

With  no  other  attendant  than  mother,  Mr.  Meagles  went 
upon  his  pilgrimage,  and  encountered  a  number  of  adventures. 
Not  the  least  of  his  difficulties  was,  that  he  never  knew  what 
was  said  to  him,  and  that  he  pursued  his  inquiries  among 
people  who  never  knew  what  he  said  to  them.  Still,  with  an 
unshaken  confidence  that  the  English  tongue  was  somehow 
the  mother  tongue  of  the  whole  world,  only  the  people  were 
too  stupid  to  know  it,  Mr.  Meagles  harangued  inn-keepers  in 
the  most  voluble  manner,  entered  into  loud  explanations  of 
the  most  complicated  sort,  and  utterly  renounced  replies  in 
the  native  language  of  the  respondents,  on  the  ground  that 
they  were  '^  all  bosh."  Sometimes  interpreters  were  called 
in  ;  whom  Mr.  Meagles  addressed  in  such  idiomatic  terms  of 
speech,  as  instantly  to  extinguish  and  shut  up — which  made 
the  matter  worse.  On  a  balance  of  the  account,  however,  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  he  lost  much  ;  for,  although  he 
found  no  property,  he  found  so  many  debts  and  various 
associations  of  discredit  with  the  proper  name  which  was 
the  only  word  he  made  intelligible,  that  he  was  almost  every- 
where overwhelmed  with  injurious  accusations.  On  no  fewer 
than  four  occasions,  the  police  were  called  in  to  receive  de- 
nunciations of  Mr,  Meagles  as  a  knight  of  industry,  a  good- 
for-nothing,  and  a  thief  ;  all  of  which  opprobrious  language 
he  bore  with  the  best  temper  (having  no  idea  what  it  meant), 
and  was  in  the  most  ignominious  manner  escorted  to  steam- 
boats and  public  carriages,  to  be  got  rid  of,  talking  all  the 
while,  like  a  cheerful  and  fluent  Briton  as  he  was,  with 
mother  under  his  arm. 

But  in  his  own  tongue,  and  in  his  own  head>  Mr.  Meagles 
was  a  clear,  shrewd,  persevering  man.  When  he  had 
"  worked  round,"  as  he  called  it,  to  Paris  in  his  pilgrimage, 
and  had  wholly  failed  in  it  so  far,  he  was  not  disheartened. 
"The  nearer  to  England  I  follow  him,  you  see,  mother," 
argued  Mr.  Meagles,  '*  the  nearer  I  am  likely  to  come  to  the 
papers,  whether  they  turn  up  or  no.  Because  it  is  only  rea- 
sonable to  conclude,  that  he  would  deposit  them  somewhere 
where  they  would  be  safe  from  people  over  in  England,  and 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  809 

where  they  would  yet  be  accessible  to  himself,  don't  you 
see  ? " 

At  Paris,  Mr.  Meagles  found  a  letter  from  Little  Dorrit, 
lying  waiting  for  him;  in  which  she  mentioned  that  she  had 
been  able  to  talk  for  a  minute  or  two  with  Mr.  Clennam 
about  this  man  who  was  no  more;  and  that  when  she  told 
Mr.  Clennam  that  his  friend  Mr.  Meagles  who  was  on  his 
way  to  see  him  had  an  interest  in  ascertaining  something 
about  the  man  if  he  could,  he  had  asked  her  to  tell  Mr. 
Meagles  that  he  had  been  known  to  Miss  Wade,  then  living 
in  such  a  street  at  Calais.     ^^  Oho  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles. 

As  soon  afterward  as  might  be,  in  those  diligence  days, 
Mr.  Meagles  rang  the  cracked  bell  at  the  cracked  gate,  and 
it  jarred  open,  and  the  pleasant  woman  stood  in  the  dark 
doorway,  saying,  ''  Ice-say  !  Seer  I  Who  ?  "  In  acknowl- 
edgment of  whose  address,  Mr.  Meagles  murmured  to  him- 
self that  there  was  some  sense  about  these  Calais  people, 
who  really  did  know  something  of  what  you  and  themselves 
were  up  to;  and  returned,  ^^  Miss  Wade,  my  dear."  He  was 
then  shown  into  the  presence  of  Miss  Wade. 

''  It's  some  time  since  we  met,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  clear- 
ing his  throat;  '^  I  hope  you  have  been  pretty  well,  Miss 
Wade  ?  " 

Without  hoping  that  he  or  any  body  else  had  been  pretty 
well.  Miss  Wade  asked  him  to  what  she  was  indebted  for  the 
honor  of  seeing  him  again  ?  Mr.  Meagles,  in  the  meanwhile, 
glanced  all  round  the  room,  without  observing  any  thing  in 
the  shape  of  a  box, 

**  Why,  the  truth  is,  Miss  Wade,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  in  a 
comfortable,  managing,  not  to  say  coaxing  voice,  "it  is  pos- 
sible that  you  may  be  able  to  throw  a  light  upon  a  little 
something  that  is  at  present  dark.  Any  unpleasant  by-gones 
b&tween  us,  are  by-gones,  I  hope.  Can't  be  helped  now. 
You  recollect  my  daughter  ?  Time  changes  so  !  A 
mother  !  " 

In  his  innocence,  Mr.  Meagles  could  not  have  struck  a 
worse  key-note.  He  paused  for  an  expression  of  interest, 
but  paused  in  vain. 

"  That  is  not  the  subject  you  wished  to  enter  on  ?  "  she 
said,  after  a  cold  silence. 

"No,  no,"  returned  Mr.  Meagles.  ^^  No.  I  thought  your 
good-nature  might " 

"  I  thought  you  knew,"  she  interrupted  with  a  smile,  **  that 
my  good-nature  is  not  to  be  calculated  upon  ?  " 


8io  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  Don't  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  ;  "  you  do  yourself  an 
injustice.  However,  to  come  to  the  point."  For  he  was 
sensible  of  having  gained  nothing  by  approaching  it  in  a 
roundabout  way.  '*  I  have  heard  from  my  friend  Clennam, 
who,  you  will  be  sorry  to  hear,  has  been  and  still  is  very 
ill " 

He  paused  again,  and  again  she  was  silent. 

"  — that  you  had  some  knowledge  of  one  Blandois,  lately 
killed  in  London  by  a  violent  accident.  Now,  don't  mis- 
take me  !  I  know  it  was  a  slight  knowledge,"  said  Mr.  Mea- 
gles, dexterously  forestalling  an  angry  interruption  which  he 
saw  about  to  break.  **  I  am  fully  aware  of  that.  It  was  a 
slight  knowledge,  I  know.  But  the  question  is,"  Mr.  Mea- 
gles's  voice  here  became  comfortable  again,  "  did  he,  on  his 
way  to  England  last  time,  leave  a  box  of  papers,  or  a  bun- 
dle of  papers,  or  some  papers  or  other  in  some  receptacle  or 
other — any  papers — with  you;  begging  you  to  allow  him  to 
leave  them  here  for  a  short  time,  until  he  wanted  them  ?  " 

"  The  question  is  ?"  she  repeated.  '^  Whose  question  is  ? " 

*'  Mine,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "  And  not  only  mine  but 
Clennam's  question,  and  other  people's  question.  Now,  I 
am  sure,"  continued  Mr.  Meagles,  whose  heart  was  overflow- 
ing with  Pet,  ^'  that  you  can't  have  any  unkind  feeling  to- 
ward my  daughter;  it's  impossible.  Well  !  It's  her  ques- 
tion, too;  being  one  in  which  a  particular  friend  of  hers  is 
nearly  interested.  So  here  I  am,  frankly  to  say  that  is  the 
question,  and  to  ask,  Now,  did  he  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,"  she  returned,  "  I  seem  to  be  a  mark 
for  every  body  who  knew  any  thing  of  a  man  I  once  in  my  life 
hired,  and  paid,  and  dismissed,  to  aim  their  questions  at !  " 

"  Now,  don't,"  remonstrated  Mr.  Meagles, ''  don't  !  Don't 
take  offense,  because  it's  the  plainest  question  in  the  world, 
and  might  be  asked  of  any  one.  The  documents  I  refer  to 
were  not  his  own,  were  wrongfully  obtained,  might  at  some 
time  or  other  be  troublesome  to  an  innocent  person  to  have  in 
keeping,  and  are  sought  by  the  people  to  whom  they  really 
belong.  He  passed  through  Calais  going  to  London,  and 
there  were  reasons  why  he  should  not  take  them  with  him 
then,  why  he  should  wish  to  be  able  to  put  his  hand  upon 
them  readily,  and  why  he  should  distrust  leaving  them  with 
people  of  his  own  sort.  Did  he  leave  them  here  ?  I  declare 
if  I  knew  how  to  avoid  giving  you  offense^  I  would  take  any 
pains  to  do  it.  I  put  the  question  personally,  but  there's 
nothing  personal  in  it.     I  might  put  it  to  any  one  ;  I  have 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  8ii 

put  it  already  to  many  people.  Did  he  leave  them  here  ? 
Did  he  leave  any  thing  here  ?  " 

**No." 

"  Then  unfortunately,  Miss  Wade,  you  know  nothing  about 
them  ? " 

"  I  know  nothing  about  them,  I  have  now  answered  your 
unaccountable  question.  He  did  not  leave  them  here,  and  I 
know  nothing  about  them." 

"  There  1  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  rising,  '*  I  am  sorry  for  it  ; 
that's  over  ;  and  I  hope  there  is  not  much  harm  done. 
Tattycoram  well,  Miss  Wade  ?  " 

"  Harriet  well  ?     Oh,  yes  !  " 

*^  I  have  put  my  foot  in  it  again,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  thus 
corrected.  *'  I  can't  keep  my  foot  out  of  it,  here,  it  seems. 
Perhaps,  if  I  had  thought  twice  about  it,  I  might  never  have 
given  her  the  jingling  name.  But  when  one  means  to  be 
good-natured  and  sportive  with  young  people,  one  doesn't 
think  twice.  Her  old  friend  leaves  a  kind  word  for  her  Miss 
Wade,  if  you  should  think  proper  to  deliver  it." 

She  said  nothing  as  to  that  ;  and  Mr.  Meagles,  taking  his 
honest  face  out  of  the  dull  room,  where  it  shone  like  a  sun, 
took  it  to  the  hotel  where  he  had  left  Mrs.  Meagles,  and 
where  he  made  the  report :  "  Beaten,  mother  ;  no  effects  !  " 
He  took  it  next  to  the  London  steam  packet,  which  sailed 
in  the  night  ;  and  next  to  the  Marshalsea. 

The  faithful  John  was  on  duty,  when  father  and  mother 
Meagles  presented  themselves  at  the  wicket  toward  nightfall. 
Miss  Dorrit  was  not  there  then,  he  said  ;  but  she  had  been 
there  in  the  morning,  and  invariably  came  in  the  evening. 
Mr.  Clennam  was  slowly  mending  ;  and  Maggy  and  Mrs. 
Plornish  and  Mr.  Baptist  took  care  of  him  by  turns.  Miss 
Dorrit  was  sure  to  come  back  that  evening  before  the  bell 
rang.  There  was  the  room  the  marshal  had  lent  her,  up  stairs, 
in  which  they  could  wait  for  her,  if  they  pleased.  Mistrustful 
that  it  might  be  hazardous  to  Arthur  to  see  him  without  prep- 
aration, Mr.  Meagles  accepted  the  offer  ;  and  they  were  left 
shut  up  in  the  room,  looking  down  through  its  barred  window 
into  the  jail. 

The  cramped  area  of  the  prison  had  such  an  effect  on  Mrs. 
Meagles  that  she  began  to  weep,  and  such  an  effect  on  Mr. 
Meagles  that  he  began  to  gasp  for  air.  He  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  panting,  and  making  himself  worse  by 
laboriously  fanning  himself  with  his  handkerchief,  when  he 
turned  toward  the  opening  door. 


8i2  ^      LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  Eh  ?  Good  gracious  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  *'  this  is  not 
Miss  Dorrit !     Why,  mother,  look  !     Tattycoram  !  " 

No  other.  And  in  Tattycoram' s  arms  was  an  iron  box 
some  two  feet  square.  Such  a  box  had  Affery  Flintwinch 
seen  in  the  first  of  her  dreams,  going  out  of  the  old  house  in 
the  dead  of  the  night,  under  Double's  arm.  This,  Tatty- 
coram put  on  the  ground  at  her  old  master's  feet  ;  this,  Tatty- 
coram fell  on  her  knees  by,'  and  beat  her  hands  upon,  crying 
half  in  exultation  and  half  in  despair,  half  in  laughter  and 
half  in  tears,  ^'  Pardon,  dear  master,  take  me  back,  dear 
mistress,  here  it  is  !  " 

**  Tatty  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Meagles. 

"  What  you  wanted  !  "  said  Tattycoram.  "  Here  it  is  !  I 
was  put  in  the  next  room  not  to  see  you.  I  heard  you  ask 
her  about  it  ;  1  heard  her  say  she  hadn't  got  it  ;  I  was  there 
when  he  left  it,  and  I  took  it  at  bedtime  and  brought  it  away. 
Here  it  is  !  " 

"  Why,  my  girl."  cried  Mr.  Meagles,  more  breathless  than 
before,  '*  how  did  you  come  over  ? " 

"  I  came  in  the  boat  with  you.  I  was  sitting  wrapped  up 
at  the  other  end.  When  you  took  a  coach  at  the  wharf,  I 
took  another  coach  and  followed  you  here.  She  never  would 
have  given  it  up,  after  what  you  nad  said  to  her  about  its 
being  wanted  ;  she  would  sooner  have  sunk  it  in  the  sea,  or 
burned  it.     But  here  it  is  !  " 

The  glow  and  rapture  that  the  girl  was  in,  with  her 
"  Here  it  is  !  " 

*'  She  never  wanted  it  to  be  left,  I  must  say  that  for  her  ; 
but  he  left  it,  and  I  know  well  that  after  what  you  said,  and 
after  her  denying  it,  she  never  would  have  given  it  up.  But 
here  it  is  !  Dear  master,  dear  mistress,  take  me  back  again, 
and  give  me  back  the  dear  old  name  1  Let  this  intercede 
for  me.     Here  it  is  !  " 

Father  and  mother  Meagles  never  deserved  their  names 
better,  than  when  they  took  the  headstrong  foundling-girl 
into  their  protection  again. 

*'  Oh  !  I  have  been  so  wretched,"  cried  Tattycoram, 
weeping  much  more,  after  that,  than  before  ;  always  so  un- 
happy, and  so  repentant  !  I  was  afraid  of  her,  from  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  her.  1  knew  she  had  got  a  j^ower  over  me, 
through  understanding  what  was  bad  in  me,  so  well.  It  was 
a  madness  in  me,  and  she  could  raise  it  whenever  she  liked. 
I  used  to  think,  when  I  got  into  that  state,  that  people  were 
all  against  me  because  of    my    first    beginning  ;    and    the 


LITTLE  DOR]  JT.  813 

kinder  they  were  to  me,  the  wojse  fault  I  found  in  them. 
I  made  it  out  that  they  triumphed  above  me,  and  that  they 
wanted  to  make  me  envy  them,  when  I  know — when  I  even 
knew  then,  if  I  would — that  they  never  thought  of  such  a 
thing.  And  my  beautiful  young  mistress  not  so  happy  as 
she  ought  to  have  been,  and  I  gone  away  from  her  !  Such  a 
brute  and  wretch  as  she  must  think  me  !  But  you'll  say  a 
word  to  her  for  me,  and  ask  her  to  be  as  forgiving  as  you 
two  are  ?  For,  1  am  not  so  bad  as  I  was,"  pleaded  Tatty- 
coram  ;  ^'  I  am  bad  enough,  but  not  so  bad  as  I  was,  indeed. 
I  have  had  Miss  Wade  before  me  all  this  time,  as  if  it  was 
my  own  self  grown  ripe — turning  every  thing  the  wrong  way, 
and  twisting  all  good  into  evil.  I  have  had  her  before  me 
all  this  time,  finding  no  pleasure  in  any  thing  but  keeping  me 
as  miserable,  suspicious,  and  tormenting  as  herself.  Not 
that  she  had  much  to  do,  to  do  that,"  cried  Tattycoram,  in 
a  closing  great  burst  of  distress,  ''  for  I  was  as  bad  as  bad 
could  be.  I  only  mean  to  say,  that,  after  what  I  have  gone 
through,  I  hope  I  shall  never  be  quite  so  bad  again,  and 
that  I  shall  get  better  by  very  slow  degrees.  Til  try  very 
hard.  I  won't  stop  at  five-and-twenty,  sir.  I'll  count  live- 
and-twenty  hundred,  five-and-twenty  thousand  !  " 

Another  opening  of  the  door,  and  Tattycoram  subsided, 
and  Little  Dorrit  came  in,  and  Mr.  Meagles  with  pride  and 
joy  produced  the  box,  and  her  gentle  face  was  lighted  up 
with  grateful  happiness  and  joy.  The  secret  was  safe  now  ! 
She  could  keep  her  own  part  of  it  from  him  ;  he  should 
never  know  of  her  loss  ;  in  time  to  come,  he  shotdd  know 
all  that  was  01  import  to  himself  ;  but  he  should  never  know 
what  concerned  her,  only.  That  was  all  passed,  all  forgiven, 
all  forgotten. 

*^Now,  my  dear  Miss  Dorrit,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  "  I  am 
a  man  of  business — or  at  least  was — and  I  am  going  to  take 
my  measures  promptly,  in  that  character.  Had  I  better  see 
Arthur  to-night?" 

^'  I  think  not  to-night.  I  will  go  to  his  room  and  as- 
certain how  he  is.  But  I  think  it  will  be  better  not  to 
see  him  to-night." 

*'  I  am  much  of  your  opinion,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Meagles, 
"  and  therefore  I  have  not  been  any  nearer  to  him  than  this 
dismal  room.  Then  I  shall  probably  not  see  him  for  some 
little  time  to  come.  But  I'll  explain  what  I  mean  when  you 
come  back." 

She  left  the  room.     Mr.  Meagles,  looking  through  the  bars 


8i4  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

of  the  window,  saw  her  pass  out  of  the  lodge  below  him  into 
the  prison-yard.  He  said  gently,  *'  Tattycoram,  come  to  me 
a  moment,  my  good  girl." 

Slie  went  up  to  the  window. 

"  You  see  that  young  lady  who  was  here  just  now — that 
little,  quiet,  fragile  figure  passing  along  there,  Tatty  ?  Look. 
The  people  stand  out  of  the  way  to  let  her  go  by.  The  men 
— see  the  poor,  shabby  fellows — pull  off  their  hats  to  her 
quite  politely,  and  now  she  glides  in  at  that  doorway.  See 
her,  Tattycoram  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  have  heard  tell,  Tatty,  that  she  was  once  regularly 
called  the  child  of  this  place.  She  was  born  here,  and  lived 
here  many  years.  I  can't  breathe  here.  A  doleful  place,  to 
be  born  and  bred  in,  Tattycoram  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir  !  " 

**  If  she  had  constantly  thought  of  herself,  and  settled 
with  herself  that  every  body  visited  this  place  upon  her, 
turned  it  against  her,  and  cast  it  at  her,  she  would  have 
led  an  irritable  and  probably  an  useless  existence.  Yet  I 
have  heard  tell,  Tattycoram,  that  her  young  life  has  been 
one  of  active  resignation,  goodness,  and  noble  service. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  I  consider  those  eyes  of  hers  that 
were  here  just  now,  to  have  always  looked  at,  to  get  that 
expression  ?  " 

*^  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir." 

*^  Duty,  Tattycoram.  Begin  it  early,  and  do  it  well  ;  and 
there  is  no  antecedent  to  it,  in  any  origin  or  station,  that  will 
tell  against  us  with  the  Almighty,  or  with  ourselves." 

They  remained  at  the  window,  mother  joining  them  and 
pitying  the  prisoners,  until  she  was  seen  coming  back.  She 
was  soon  in  the  room,  and  recommended  that  Arthur,  whom 
she  had  left  calm  and  composed,  should  not  be  visited  that 
night. 

**  Good  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  cheerily.  *'  I  have  not  a 
doubt  that's  best.  I  shall  trust  my  remembrances  then,  my 
sweet  nurse,  in  your  hands,  and  I  well  know  they  couldn't  be 
in  better.     I  am  off  again  to-morrow  morning.'* 

Little  Dorrit,  surprised,  asked  him  where  ? 

^*  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  ''  I  can't  live  without 
breathing.  This  place  has  taken  my  breath  away,  and  I  shall 
never  get  it  back  again  until  Arthur  is  out  of  this  place." 

'*  How  is  that  a  reason  for  going  off  again  to-morrow 
raorning  ?  " 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  815 

**  You  shall  understand,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  "To-night 
we  three  will  put  up  at  a  city  hotel.  To-morrow  morning, 
mother  and  Tattycoram  will  go  down  to  Twickenham,  where 
Mrs.  Tickit,  sitting  attended  by  Dr.  Buchan,  in  the  parlor- 
window,  will  think  them  a  couple  of  ghosts;  and  I  shall  go 
abroad  again  for  Doyce.  We  must  have  Dan  here.  Now, 
I  tell  you,  my  love,  it's  of  no  use  writing  and  planning  and 
conditionally  speculating,  upon  this  and  that  and  other,  at 
uncertain  intervals  and  distances  ;  we  must  have  Doyce  here. 
I  devote  myself,  at  daybreak  to-morrow  morning,  to  bringing 
Doyce  here.  It's  nothing  to  me  to  go  and  find  him.  I'm  an 
old  traveler,  and  all  foreign  languages  and  customs  are  alike 
to  me — I  never  understand  any  thing  about  any  of  'em. 
Therefore,  I  can't  be  put  to  any  inconvenience.  Go  at  once 
-  I  must,  it  stands  to  reason  ;  because  I  can't  live  without 
breathing  freely  ;  and  I  can't  breathe  freely,  until  Arthur  is 
out  of  this  Marshalsea.  I  am  stifled  at  the  present  moment 
and  have  scarcely  breath  enough  to  say  this  much,  and  to 
carry  this  precious  box  down  stairs  for  you." 

They  got  into  the  street  as  the  bell  began  to  ring,  Mr. 
Meagles  carrying  the  box.  Little  Dorrit  had  no  conveyance 
there;  which  rather  surprised  him.  He  called  a  coach  for 
her,  and  she  got  into  it,  and  he  placed  the  box  beside  her 
when  she  was  seated.  In  her  joy  and  gratitude  she  kissed 
his  hand. 

^'  I  don't  like  that,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Meagles.  **  It  goes 
against  my  feeling  of  what's  right,  tha,t  you  should  do  homage 
to  me — at  the  Marshalsea  gate." 

She  bent  forward  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

*'  You  remind  me  of  the  days,"  said  Mr.  Meagles  suddenly 
drooping — "  but  she's  very  fond  of  him,  and  hides  his  faults, 
and  thinks  that  no  one  sees  them — and  he  certainly  is  well 
connected,  and  of  a  very  good  family  !  " 

It  was  the  only  comfort  he  had  in  the  loss  of  his  daughter, 
and  if  he  made  the  most  of  it,  who  could  blame  him  ? 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

GONE. 

On  a  healthy  autumn  day,  the  Marshalsea  prisoner,  weak 
but  otherwise  restored,  sat  listening  to  a  voice  that  read  to 
him.     On  a  healthy  autumn  day  ;  when  the  golden  fields  had 


8i6  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

been  reaped  and  plowed  again,  when  the  summer  fruits 
had  ripened  and  waned,  when  the  green  perspectives  of  hops 
had  been  laid  low  by  the  busy  pickers,  when  the  apples  clus- 
tering in  the  orchards  were  russet,  and  the  berries  of  the 
mountain  ash  were  crimson  among  the  yellow  foliage. 
Already  in  the  woods,  glimpses  of  the  hardy  winter  that  was 
coming,  were  to  be  caught  through  unaccustomed  openings 
among  the  boughs  where  the  prospect  shone  defined  and 
clear,  free  from  the  bloom  of  the  drowsy  summer  weather, 
which  had  rested  on  it  as  the  bloom  lies  on  the  plum.  So 
from  the  sea-shore  the  ocean  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  lying 
asleep  in  the  heat,  but  its  thousand  sparkling  eyes  were  open 
and  its  whole  breath  was  in  joyful  animation,  from  the  cool 
sand  on  the  beach  to  the  little  sails  on  the  horizon,  drifting 
away  like  autumn-tinted  leaves  that  had  drifted  from  the 
trees. 

Changeless  and  barren,  looking  ignorantly  at  all  the 
seasons  with  its  fixed  pinched  face  of  poverty  and  care,  the 
prison  had  not  a  touch  of  any  of  these  beauties  on  it.  Blos- 
som what  would,  its  bricks  and  bars  bore  uniformly  the  same 
dead  crop.  Yet  Clennam,  listening  to  the  voice  as  it  read  to 
him,  heard  in  it  all  that  great  nature  was  doing,  heard  in  it 
all  the  soothing  songs  she  sings  to  man.  At  no  mother's 
knee  but  hers,  had  he  ever  dwelt  in  his  youth  on  hopeful 
promises,  on  playful  fancies,  on  the  harvests  of  tenderness 
and  humility  that  lie  hidden  in  the  early-fostered  seeds  of 
the  imagination  ;  on  the  oaks  of  retreat  from  blighting  winds 
that  have  the  germs  of  their  strong  roots  in  nursery  acorns. 
But  in  the  tones  of  the  voice  that  read  to  him,  there  were 
memories  of  an  old  feeling  of  such  things,  and  echoes  of 
every  merciful  and  loving  whisper  that  had  ever  stolen  to 
him  in  his  life. 

When  the  voice  stopped,  he  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes, 
murmuring  that  the  light  was  strong  upon  them. 

Little  Dorrit  put  the  book  by,  and  presently  arose  quietly 
to  shade  the  window.  Maggy  sat  at  her  needlework  in  her 
old  place.  The  light  softened.  Little  Dorrit  brought  her 
chair  closer  to  his  side. 

*'  This  will  soon  be  over  now,  dear  Mr.  Clennam.  Not 
only  are  Mr.  Doyce's  letters  to  you  so  full  of  friendship  and 
encouragement,  but  Mr.  Rugg  says  his  letters  to  him  are  so 
full  of  help,  and  that  every  body  (now  a  little  anger  is  past) 
is  so  considerate,  and  speaks  so  well  of  you  that  it  will  soon 
be  over  now." 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  817 

"  Dear  girl.     Dear  heart.     Good  angel  !  " 

"  You  praise  me  far  too  much  And  yet  it  is  such  an 
exquisite  pleasure  to  me  to  hear  you  speak  so  feelingly,  and 
to — and  to  see,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  raising  her  eyes  to  his, 
"  how  deeply  you  mean  it,  that  I  can  not  say  don't." 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

"  You  have  been  here  many,  many  times,  when  I  have  not 
seen  you,  Little  Dorrit  ?  " 

"  Yes,  1  have  been  here  sometimes  when  I  have  not  come 
into  the  room." 

''  Very  often  ?  " 

"  Rather  often,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  timidly. 

**  Every  day  ?" 

*'  I  think,"  said  Little  Dorrit,  after  hesitating,  **  that  I 
have  been  here  at  least  twice,  every  day." 

He  might  have  released  the  little  light  hand,  after  fer- 
vently kissing  it  again  ;  but  that,  with  a  very  gentle  linger- 
ing where  it  was,  it  seemed  to  court  being  retained.  He  took 
it  in  both  of  his,  and  it  lay  softly  on  his  breast. 

'*  Dear  Little  Dorrit,  it  is  not  my  imprisonment  only  that 
will  soon  be  over.  This  sacrifice  of  you  must  be  ended.  We 
must  learn  to  part  again,  and  to  take  our  different  ways  so 
wide  asunder.  You  have  not  forgotten  what  we  said  together, 
when  you  came  back  ?  " 

*'  Oh  no,  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  But  something  has  been 
— You  feel  quite  strong  to-day,  don't  you  ? " 

"  Quite  strong." 

The  hand  he  held,  crept  up  a  little  nearer  to  his  face. 

"  Do  you  feel  quite  strong  enough  to  know  what  a  great 
fortune  I  have  got  ?  " 

**  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  be  told.  No  fortune  can  be  too 
great  or  good  for  Little  Dorrit." 

*^  I  have  been  anxiously  waiting  to  tell  you.  [  have  been 
longing  and  longing  to  tell  you.  You  are  sure  you  will  not 
take  it  ?  " 

"  Never  !  " 

**  You  are  quite  sure  you  will  not  take  half  of  it  ?  " 

"  Never,  dear  Little  Dorrit  !  " 

As  she  looked  at  him  silently,  there  was  something  in  her 
affectionate  face  that  he  did  not  quite  comprehend  ;  some- 
thing that  could  have  broken  into  tears  in  a  moment,  and 
yet  that  was  happy  and  proud. 

"  You  will  be  sorry  to  hear  what  I  have  to  tell  you  about 
Fanny,     Poor  Fanny  has  lost  every  thing.     She  has  nothing 


8i8  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

left  but  her  husband's  income.  All  that  papa  gave  her  when 
she  married,  was  lost  as  your  money  was  lost.  It  was  in  the 
same  hands,  and  it  is  all  gone." 

Arthur  was  more  shocked  than  surprised  to  hear  it.  "  I 
had  hoped  it  might  not  be  so  bad,"  he  said  ;  "  but  I  had 
feared  a  heavy  loss  there,  knowing  the  connection  between 
her  husband  a«nd  the  defaulter." 

"  Yes.  It  is  all  gone.  I  am  very  sorry  for  Fanny  ;  very, 
very,  very  sorry  for  poor  Fanny.     My  poor  brother,  too  '  " 

"  Had  he  property  in  the  same  hands  t  " 

^*  Yes  !  And  it  is  all  gone. — How  much  do  you  think  my 
own  great  fortune  is  ?  " 

As  Arthur  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  with  a  new  appre- 
hension on  him,  she  withdrew  her  hand,  and  laid  her  face 
down  on  the  spot  where  it  had  rested. 

"  I  have  nothing  in  the  world.  I  am  as  poor  as  when  I 
lived  here.  When  papa  came  over  to  England,  he  confided 
every  thing  he  had  to  the  same  hands,  and  it  is  all  swept 
away.  Oh  my  dearest  and  best,  are  you  quite  sure  you  will 
not  share  my  fortune  with  me  now  ?  " 

Locked  in  his  arms,  held  to  his  heart,  with  his  manly 
tears  upon  her  own  cheek,  she  drew  the  slight  hand  round 
his  neck,  and  clasped  it  in  its  fellow-hand. 

"  Never  to  part,  my  dearest  Arthur  ;  never  any  more 
until  the  last  !  I  never  was  rich  before,  I  never  was  proud 
before,  I  never  was  happy  before,  I  am  rich  in  being  taken 
by  you,  I  am  proud  in  having  been  resigned  by  you,  I  am'' 
happy  in  being  with  you  in  this  prison,  as  I  should  be  happy 
in  coming  back  to  it  with  you,  if  it  should  be  the  will  of 
God,  and  comforting  and  serving  you  with  all  my  love  and 
truth.  I  am  yours  anywhere,  everywhere  !  I  love  you  dearly! 
I  would  rather  pass  my  life  here  with  you,  and  go  out  daily, 
working  for  our  bread,  than  I  would  have  the  greatest 
fortune  that  ever  was  told,  and  be  the  greatest  lady  that  ever 
was  honored.  Oh,  if  poor  papa  may  only  know  how  blest  at 
last  my  heart  is,  in  this  room  where  he  suffered  for  so  many 
years  !  " 

Maggy  had  of  course  been  staring  from  the  first,  and  had 
of  course  been  crying  her  eyes  out,  long  before  this. 
Maggy  was  now  so  overjoyed  that,  after  hugging  her  little 
mother  with  all  her  might,  she  went  down  stairs  like  a  clog- 
hornpipe  to  find  somebody  or  other  to  whom  to  impart  her 
gladness.  Whom  should  Maggy  meet  but  Flora  and  Mr.  F.'s 


littlp:  dorrit.  819 

aunt  opportunely  coming  in  ?  And  whom  else,  as  a  conse- 
quence of  that  meeting,  should  Little  Dorrit  find  waiting 
for  herself,  when,  a  good  two  or  three  hours  afterward,  she 
went  out  ? 

Flora's  eyes  were  a  little  red,  and  she  seemed  rather  out 
of  spirits.  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  was  so  stiffened  that  she  had  the 
appearance  of  being  past  bending,  by  any  means  short  of 
powerful  mechanical  pressure.  Her  bonnet  was  cocked  up 
behind  in  a  terrific  manner  ;  and-  her  stony  reticule  was  as 
rigid  as  if  it  had  been  petrified  by  the  Gorgon's  head,  and 
had  got  it  at  that  moment  inside.  With  these  imposing 
attributes,  Mr.  F.'s  aunt,  publicly  seated  on  the  steps  of  the 
marshal's  official  residence,  had  been  for  the  two  or  three 
hours  in  question  a  great  boon  to  the  younger  inhabitants  of 
the  borough,  whose  sallies  of  humor  she  had  considerably 
flushed  herself  by  resenting,  at  the  point  of  her  umbrella, 
from  time  to  time. 

'^  Painfully  aware,  Miss  Dorrit,  I  am  sure,"  said  Flora, 
"  that  to  propose  an  adjournment  to  any  place  to  one  so  far 
removed  by  fortune  and  so  courted  and  caressed  by  the  best 
society  must  ever  appear  intruding  even  if  not  a  pie-shop  far 
below  your  present  sphere  and  a  back-parlor  though  a  civil 
man  but  if  for  the  sake  of  Arthur — can  not  overcome  it  more 
improper  now  than  ever  late  Doyce  and  Clennam — one  last 
remark  I  might  wish  to  make  one  last  explanation  I  might 
wish  to  offer  perhaps  your  good-nature  might  excuse  under 
pretense  of  three  kidney  ones  the  humble  place  of  conver- 
sation." 

Rightly  interpreting  this  rather  obscure  speech.  Little 
Dorrit  returned  that  she  was  quite  at  Flora's  disposition. 
Flora  accordingly  led  the  way  across  the  road  to  the  pie-shop 
in  question  ;  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  stalking  across  in  the  rear,  and 
putting  herself  in  the  way  of  being  run  over,  with  a  persever- 
ance worthy  of  a  better  cause. 

When  the  '^  three  kidney  ones,"  which  were  to  be  the  blind 
to  the  conversation,  were  set  before  them  on  three  little  tin 
platters,  each  kidney  one  ornamented  with  a  hole  at  the  top, 
into  which  the-  civil  man  poured  hot  gravy  out  of  a  spouted 
can  as  if  he  were  feeding  three  lamps.  Flora  took  out  her 
pocket  handkerchief. 

""  If  fancy's  fair  dreams,"  she  began,  "  have  ever  pictured 
that  when  Arthur — can  not  overcome  it  pray  excuse  me — was 
restored  to  freedom  even  a  pie  as  far  from  flaky  as  the  present 
and  so  deficient  in  kidney  as  to  be  in  that  respect  like  a  minced 


820  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

nutmeg  might  not  prove  unacceptable  if  offered  by  the  hand 
of  true  regard  such  visions  have  forever  fled  and  all  is  can- 
,  celed  but  being  aware  that  tender  relations  are  in  contem- 
plation beg  to  state  that  I  heartily  wish  well  to  both  and  find 
no  fault  with  either  not  the  least,  it  may  be  withering  to  know 
that  ere  the  hand  of  time  had  made  me  much  less  slim  than 
formerly  and  dreadfully  red  on  the  slightest  exertion  particu- 
larly after  eating  I  well  know  when  it  takes  the  form  of  a  rash 
it  might  have  been  and  was  not  through  the  interruption  of 
parents  and  mental  torpor  succeeded  until  the  mysterious 
clew  was  held  by  Mr.  F.  still  I  would  not  be  ungenerous  to 
either  and  I  heartily  wish  well  to  both." 

Little  Dorrit  took  her  hand,  and  thanked  her  for  all  her 
old  kindness. 

^^  Call  it  not  kindness,"  returned  Flora,  giving  her  an  hon- 
est kiss,  "  for  you  always  were  the  best  and  dearest  little  thing 
that  ever  was  if  I  may  take  the  liberty  and  even  in  a  money 
point  of  view  a  saving  being  conscience  itself  though  I  must 
add  much  more  agreeable  than  mine  ever  was  to  me  for  though 
not  I  hope  more  burdened  than  other  people's  yet  I  have  al- 
ways found  it  far  readier  to  make  one  uncomfortable  than 
comfortable  and  evidently  taking  a  greater  pleasure  in  doing 
it  but  I  am  wandering,  one  hope  I  w^ish  to  express  ere  yet  the 
closing  scene  draws  in  and  it  is  that  I  do  trust  for  the  sake  of 
old  times  and  old  sincerity  that  Arthur  will  knew  that  I 
didn't  desert  him  in  his  misfortunes  but  that  I  came  back- 
ward and  forward  constantly  to  ask  if  I  could  do  any 
thing  for  him  and  that  I  sat  in  the  pie-shop  where  they  very 
civilly  fetched  something  warm  in  a  tumbler  from  the  hotel 
and  really  very  nice  hours  after  hours  to  keep  him  company 
over  the  way  without  his  knowing  it." 

Flora  really  had  tears  in  her  eyes  now,  and  they  showed 
her  to  great  advantage. 

*'  Over  and  above  which,"  said  Flora,  "  I  earnestly  beg 
you  as  the  dearest  thing  that  ever  was  if  you'll  still  excuse 
the  familiarity  from  one  who  moves  in  very  different  circles 
to  let  Arthur  understand  that  I  don't  know  after  all  whether 
it  wasn't  all  nonsense  between  us  though  pleasant  at  the 
time  and  trying  too  and  certainly  Mr.  F.  did  work  a  change 
and  the  spell  being  broken  nothing  could  be  expected  to  take 
place  without  weaving  it  afresh  which  various  circumstances 
have  combined  to  prevent  of  which  perhaps  not  the  least 
powerful  was  that  it  was  not  to  be,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say 
if  it  had  been  agreeable  to  Arthur  and  had  brought  itself 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  821 

about  naturally  in  the  first  instance  I  should  not  have  been 
very  glad  being  of  a  lively  disposition  and  moped  at  home 
where  papa  undoubtedly  is  the  most  aggravating  of  his  sex 
and  not  improved  since  having  been  cut  down  by  the  hand 
of  the  incendiary  into  something  of  which  I  never  saw  the 
counterpart  in  all  my  life  but  jealousy  is  not  my  character 
nor  ill-will  though  many  faults." 

Without  having  been  able  closely  to  follow  Mrs.  Finch- 
ing  throu  gli  this  labyrinth,  Little  Dorrit  understood  its  pur- 
pose, snd  cordially  accepted  the  trust. 

**  The  withered  chaplet  my  dear,"  said  Flora,  with  great 
enjoyment  "is  then  perished  the  column  is  crumbled  and 
the  pyramid  is  standing  upside  down  upon  it's  what's-his- 
name  call  it  not  giddiness  call  it  not  weakness  call  it  not 
folly  I  must  pow  retire  into  privacy  and  look  upon  the  ashes 
of  departed  joys  no  more  but  taking  the  further  liberty  of 
paying  for  the  pastry  which  has  formed  the  humble  pretext 
of  our  interview  will  forever  say  adieu  !  " 

Mr.  PVs  aunt,  who  had  eaten  her  pie  with  great  solem- 
nity, and  who  had  been  elaborating  some  grievous  scheme 
of  injury  in  her  mind,  since  her  first  assumption  of  that  pub- 
lic position  on  the  marshal's  steps,  took  the  present  oppor- 
tunity of  addressing  the  following  Sybil] ic  apostrophe  to  the 
lelict  of  her  late  nephew. 

"  Bring  him  for'ard,   and  I'll  chuck  liim  out  o'  winder  !  " 

Flora  tried  in  vain  to  soothe  the  excellent  woman,  by  ex- 
plaining that  they  were  going  home  to  dinner.  Mr.  F.'s 
aunt  persisted  in  replying,  *'  Bring  him  for'ard,  and  I'll 
chuck  him  out  o'  winder  !  "  Having  reiterated  this  demand 
an  immense  number  of  times,  with  a  sustained  glare  of  de- 
fiance eX  Little  Dorrit,  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  folded  her  arms,  and 
sat  down  in  the  corner  of  the  pie-shop  parlor  ;  steadfastly 
refusing  to  budge  until  such  time  as  "he  "  should  have  been 
*' brought  for'ard,"  and  the  chucking  portion  of  his  destiny 
accomplished. 

In  this  condition  of  things.  Flora  confided  to  Little  Dorrit 
that  she  had  not  seen  Mr.  F.'s  aunt  so  full  of  life  and  char- 
acter for  weeks  ;  that  she  would  find  it  necessary  to  remain 
there  **  hours  perhaps,"  until  the  inexorable  old  lady  could 
be  softened  ;  and  that  she  could  manage  her  best  alone. 
They  parted,  therefore,  in  the  friendliest  manner,  and  with 
the  kindest  feeling  on  both  sides. 

Mr.  F.'s  aunt  holding  out  like  a  grim  fortress,  and  Flora 
becoming  in  need  of  refreshment,   a  messenger   was  dis- 


822  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

patched  to  the  hotel  for  the  tumbler  already  glanced  at, 
which  was  afterward  replenished.  With  the  aid  of  its  con- 
tents, a  newspaper,  and  some  skimming  of  the  cream  of  the 
pie-stock,  Flora  got  through  the  remainder  of  the  day  in 
■perfect  good-humor  ;  though  occasionally  embarrassed  by 
the  consequences  of  an  idle  rumor  which  circulated  among 
the  credulous  infants  of  the  neighborhood,  to  the  effect  that 
an  old  lady  had  sold  herself  to  the  pie-shop,  to  be  made  up, 
and  was  then  sitting  in  the  pie-shop  parlor,  declining  to  com- 
plete her  contract.  This  attracted  so  many  young  persons 
of  both  sexes,  and  when  the  shades  of  evening  began  to  fall, 
occasioned  so  much  interruption  to  the  business,  that  the 
merchant  became  very  pressing  in  his  proposals  that  Mr. 
F.'s  aunt  should  be  removed.  A  conveyance  was  accord- 
ingly brought  to  the  door,  which,  by  the  joint  efforts  of  the 
merchant  and  Flora,  this  remarkable  woman  was  at  last  in- 
duced to  enter  ;  though  not  without  even  then  putting  her 
head  out  of  the  window,  and  demanding  to  have  him  '^  brought 
for'ard  "  for  the  purpose  originally  mentioned.  As  she 
was  observed  at  this  time  to  direct  baleful  glances 
toward  the  Marshalsea,  it  has  been  supposed  that  this 
admirably  consistent  female  intended  by  ^'him,"  Arthur 
Clennam.  This,  however,  is  mere  speculation  ;  who  the  per- 
son was,who,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  F's  aunt's  mind,  ought 
to  have  been  brought  forward  and  never  was  brought  forward, 
will  never  be  positively  known. 

The  autumn  days  went  on,  and  Little  Dorrit  never  came 
to  the  Marshalsea  now,  and  went  away  without  seeing  him. 
No,  no,  no. 

One  morning,  as  Arthur  listened  for  the  light  feet,  that 
every  morning  ascended  winged  to  his  heart,  bringing  the 
heavenly  brightness  of  a  new  love  into  the  room  where  the 
old  love  had  wrought  so  hard  and  been  so  true  ;  one  morning, 
as  he  listened,  he  heard  her  coming,  not  alone. 

'*'  Dear  Arthur,'*  said  her  delighted  voice  outside  the 
door,  **  I  have  some  one  here.  May  I  bring  some  one 
in?" 

He  had  thought  from  the  tread  there  were  two  with  her. 
He  answered  *'  Yes,"  and  she  came  in  with  Mr.  Meagles. 
Sunburned  and  jolly  Mr.  Meagles  looked,  and  he  opened  his 
arms  and  folded  Arthur  in  them,  like  a  sun-browned  and  jolly 
father. 

""  Now,  I  am  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  after  a  minute  or 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  S23 

so.  **  Now,  it's  over.  Arthur,  my  dear  fellow,  confess  at 
once  that  you  expected  me  before.** 

"I  did,"  said  Arthur;  **  but  Amy  told  me — " 

**  Little  Dorrit.  Never  any  other  name."  (It  was  she  who 
whispered  it.) 

" — But  my  Little  Dorrit  told  me  that,  without  asking  for 
any  further  explanation,  I  was  not  to  expect  you  until  I  saw 
you." 

"  And  now  you  see  me,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shak- 
ing him  by  the  hand  stoutly  ;  ^'  and  now  you  shall  have  any 
explanation  and  every  explanation.  The  fact  is,  I  was  here 
— came  straight  to  you  from  the  allongers  and  marshongers, 
or  I  should  be  ashamed  to  look  you  in  the  face  this  day — 
but  you  were  not  in  company  trim  at  the  moment,  and  I  had 
to  start  off  again  to  catch  Doyce." 

*'  Poor  Doyce  !  "  sighed  Arthur. 

"  Don't  call  him  name^  that  he  don't  deserve,"  said  Mr. 
Meagles.  ^^  He's  not  poor  ;  hes  doing  well  enough.  Doyce 
is  a  wonderful  fellow  over  there.  I  assure  you,  he  is  making 
out  his  case  like  a  house  a-fire.  He  has  fallen  on  his  legs, 
has  Dan.  Where  they  don't  want  things  done  and  find  a  man 
to  do  'em,  that  man's  off  his  legs;  but  where  they  do  want 
things  done  and  find  a  man  to  do  'em,  that  man's  on  his 
legs.  You  won't  have  occasion  to  trouble  the  circumlocution 
office  any  more.  Let  me  tell  you,  Dan  has  done  without 
'em  !  " 

'*  What  a  load  you  take  from  my  mind  !  "  cried  Arthur. 
"  What  happiness  you  give  me  !  " 

"  Happiness  ?  "  added  Mr.  Meagles.  "  Don't  talk  about 
happiness  till  you  see  Dan.  I  assure  you,  Dan  is  directing 
works  and  executing  labors  over  yonder,  that  it  would  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end  to  look  at.  He's  no  public  offended, 
bless  you,  now  !  He's  medaled  and  ribboned,  and  starred 
and  crossed,  and  I  don't-know-what  all'd,  like  a  born  noble- 
man.    But  we  mustn't  talk  about  that  over  here." 

'^  Why  not  ?  " 

^'  Oh,  egad  !  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his  head  very 
seriously,  "  he  must  hide  all  those  things  under  lock  and  key 
when  he  comes  over  here.  They  won't  do  over  here.  In  that 
particular,  Britannia  is  a  Britannia  in  the  manger — won't  give 
her  children  such  distinctions  herself,  and  won't  allow  them 
to  be  seen  when  they  are  given  by  other  countries.  No,  no, 
Dan  1  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  shaking  his  head  again.  "  That 
won't  do  here  !  " 


824  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

"  If  you  had  brought  me  (except  for  Doyce*s  sake)  twice 
what  I  have  lost,"  cried  Arthur,  "  you  would  not  have  given 
me  the  pleasure  that  you  give  me  in  this  news." 

"  Why,  of  course,  of  course,"  assented  Mr.  Meagles.  "  Of 
course  I  know  that,  my  good  fellow,  and  therefore  I  come  out 
with  it  in  the  first  burst.  Now,  to  go  back,  about  catching 
Doyce.  I  caught  Doyce.  Ran  against  him,  among  a  lot  of 
those  dirty  brown  dogs  in  women's  nightcaps  a  great  deal 
too  big  for  'em,  calling  themselves  Arabs  and  all  sorts  of  in- 
coherent races.  You  know  'em  !  Well.  He  was  coming 
straight  to  me,  and  I  was  going  straight  to  him,  and  so  we 
came  back  together." 

"  Doyce  in  England  ?"  exclaimed  Arthur. 

''  There!  "  said  Mr.  Meagles,  throwing  open  his  arms.  **  I 
am  the  worst  man  in  the  world  to  manage  a  thing  of  this  sort. 
1  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  if  I  had  been  in  the 
diplomatic  line — right,  perhaps  !  The  long  and  the  short  of 
it  is,  Arthur,  we  have  both  been  in  England  this  fortnight. 
And  if  you  go  on  to  ask  where  Doyce  is  at  the  present  mo- 
ment, why,  my  plain  answer  is — here  he  is  !  And  now  I  can 
breathe  again  at  last  i" 

Doyce  darted  in  from  behind  the  door,  caught  Arthur  by 
both  hands,  and  said  the  rest  for  himself. 

*'  There  are  only  three  branches  of  my  subject,  my  dear 
Clennam,'*  said  Doyce,  proceeding  to  mold  them  severally, 
with  his  plastic  thumb,  on  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  they're 
soon  disposed  of.  First,  not  a  word  more  from  *'  you  about 
the  past.  There  was  an  error  in  your  calculations.  I  know 
what  that  is.  It  affects  the  whole  machine,  and  failure  is 
the  consequence.  You  will  profit  by  the  failure,  and  will 
avoid  it  another  time.  I  have  done  a  similar  thing  myself, 
in  construction,  often.  Every  failure  teaches  a  man  some- 
thing, if  he  will  learn  ;  and  you  are  too  sensible  a  man  not 
to  learn  from  this  failure.  So  much  for  firstly.  Secondly, 
I  was  sorry  you  should  have  taken  it  so  heavily  to  heart,  and 
reproached  yourself  so  severely  ;  I  was  traveling  home  night 
and  day  to  put  matters  right,  with  the  assistance  of  our 
friend,  when  I  fell  in  with  your  friend  as  he  has  informed 
you.  Thirdly,  we  two  agreed,  that,  after  what  you  had 
undergone,  after  your  distress  of  mind,  and  after  your  ill- 
ness, it  would  be  a  pleasant  surprise  if  we  could  so  far  keep 
quiet  as  to  get  things  perfectly  arranged  without  your  knowl- 
edge, and  then  come  and  say  that  all  the  affairs  were  smooth, 
that  every  thing  was  right,  that  the  business  stood  in  greater 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  825 

want  of  you  than  ever  it  did,  and  that  a  new  and  prosperous 
career  was  open  before  you  and  me  as  partners.  That's 
thirdly.  But  you  know  we  always  make  an  allowance  for 
friction,  and  so  I  have  reserved  space  to  close  in.  My  dear 
Clennam,  I  thoroughly  confide  in  you  ;  you  have  it  in  your 
power  to  be  quite  as  useful  to  me,  as  I  have,  or  have  had,  it 
in  my  power  to  be  useful  to  you  ;  your  old  place  awaits  you, 
and  wants  you  very  much  ;  there  is  nothing  to  detain  you 
here,  one  half-hour  longer." 

There  was  silence,  which  was  not  broken  until  Arthur  had 
stood  for  some  time  at  the  window  with  his  back  toward 
them,  and  until  his  little  wife  that  was  to  be,  had  gone  to 
him  and  staid  by  him. 

*'  I  made  a  remark  a  little  while  ago,"  said  Daniel  Doyce 
then,  "  which  I  am  inclined  to  think  was  an  incorrect  one. 
I  said  there  was  nothing  to  detain  you  here,  Clennam,  half 
an  hour  longer.  Am  I  mistaken  in  supposing  that  you 
would  rather  not  leave  here  till  to-morrow  morning  ?  Do  I 
know,  without  being  very  wise,  where  you  would  like  to  go, 
direct  from  these  walls  and  from  this  room  ?** 

*'You  do,"  said  Arthur.  **  It  has  been  our  cherished 
purpose.*' 

**  Very  well  !"  said  Doyce.  "  Then,  if  this  young  lady 
will  do  me  the  honor  of  regarding  me  for  four-and-twenty 
hours  in  the  light  of  a  father,  and  will  take  a  ride  with  me 
now  toward  St.  Paul's  church-yard,  I  dare  say  I  know  what 
w^e  want  to  get  there." 

Little  Dorrit  and  he  went  out  together  soon  afterward, 
and  Mr.  Meagles  lingered  behind  to  say  a  word  to  his  friend. 

"  I  think,  Arthur,  you  will  not  want  mother  and  me  in  the 
morning  and  we  will  keep  away.  It  might  set  mother  think- 
ing about  Pet  ;  she's  a  soft-hearted  woman.  She's  best  at 
the  cottage,  and  I'll  stay  there  and  keep  her  company." 

With  that  they  parted  for  the  time.  And  the  day  ended, 
and  the  night  ended,  and  the  morning  came,  and  Little  Dor- 
rit, simply  dressed  as  usual,  and  having  no  one  with  her  but 
Maggy,  came  into  the  prison  with  the  sunshine.  The  poor 
room  was  a  happy  room  that  morming.  Where  in  the  world 
was  there  a  room  so  full  of  quiet  joy  ! 

^*  My  dear  love,"  said  Arthur.  *' Why  does  Maggy  light 
the  fire  ?     We  shall  be  gone  directly." 

"  I  asked  her  to  do  it.  I  have  taken  such  an  odd  fancy, 
I  want  you  to  burn  something  for  me." 

'^What?" 


826  LITTLE  DORRIT. 

**  Only  this  folded  paper.  If  you  will  put  it  in  the  fire 
with  your  own  hand,  just  as  it  is,  my  fancy  will  be  gratified." 

"  Superstitious,  darling  Little  Dorrit  ?     Is  it  a  charm  ? 

*'  It  is  any  thing  you  like  best,  my  own,"  she  answered, 
laughing  with  glistening  eyes  and  standing  on  tiptoe  to  kiss 
him,  ^'  if  you  will  only  humor  me  when  the  fire  burns  up." 

So  they  stood  before  the  fire,  waiting.  Clennam  with  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  and  the  fire  shining,  as  fire  in  that  same 
place  had  often  shone,  in  Little  Dorrit's  eyes.  "  Is  it  bright 
enough  now  ?"  said  Arthur.  "  Quite  bright  enough  now," 
said  Little  Dorrit.  "  Does  the  charm  want  any  words  to  be 
said  ?"  asked  Arthur,  as  he  held  the  paper  over  the  flame. 
"  You  can  say  (if  you  don't  mind)  *  I  love  you  !  *  "  answered 
Little  Dorrit.     So  he  said  it,  and  the  paper  burned  away. 

They  passed  very  quietly  along  the  yard  ;  for  no  one  was 
there,  though  many  heads  were  stealthily  peeping  from  the 
windows.  Only  one  face,  familiar  of  old,  was  in  the  lodge. 
When  they  had  both  accosted  it,  and  spoken  many  kind 
words,  Little  Dorrit  turned  back  one  last  time  with  her  hand 
stretched  out,  saying,  *'  Good-by,  good  John  !  I  hope  you 
will  live  very  happy,  dear  !" 

Then  they  went  up  the  steps  of  the  neighboring  Saint 
George's  church,  and  went  up  to  the  altar,  where  Daniel 
Doyce  was  waiting  in  his  paternal  character.  And  there, 
was  Little  Dorrit's  old  friend  who  had  given  her  the  burial 
register  for  a  pillow  ;  full  of  admiration  that  she  should 
come  back  to  them  to  be  married,  after  all. 

And  they  were  married,  with  the  sun  shining  on  them 
through  the  painted  figure  of  our  Saviour  on  the  window. 
And  they  went  into  the  very  room  where  Little  Dorrit  had 
slumbered  after  her  party,  to  sign  the  marriage  register. 
And  there,  Mr.  Pancks  (destined  to  be  chief  clerk  to  Doyce 
and  Clennam,  and  afterward  partner  in  the  house),  sinking 
the  incendiary  in  the  peaceful  friend,  looked  in  at  the  door 
to  see  it  done,  with  Flora  gallantly  supported  on  one  arm 
and  Maggy  on  the  other,  and  a  background  of  John  Chivery 
and  father,  and  other  turnkeys,  who  had  run  round  for  the 
moment,  deserting  the  parent  Marshalseafor  its  happy  child. 
Nor  had  Flora  the  least  signs  of  seclusion  upon  her,  not- 
withstanding her  recent  declaration  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
was  wonderfully  smart,  and  enjoyed  the  ceremonies  mightily, 
though  in  a  fluttered  way. 

Little  Dorrit's  old  friend  held  the  inkstand  as  she  signed 
her  name,  and  the  clerk  paused  in  taking  off  the  good  clergy- 


LITTLE  DORRIT.  827 

man's  surplice,  and  all  the  witnesses  looked  on  with  special 
interest.  **  For,  you  see,"  said  Little  Dorrit's  old  friend, 
*'  this  young  lady  is  one  of  our  curiosities,  and  has  come  now 
to  the  third  volume  of  our  registers.  Her  birth  is  what  I 
call  the  first  volume  ;  she  lay  asleep  on  this  very  floor,  with 
her  pretty  head  on  what  I  call  the  second  volume  ;  and  she's 
now  a-writing  her  little  name  as  a  bride,  in  what  I  call  the 
third  volume. 

They  all  gave  place  when  the  signing  was  done,  and  Little 
Dorrit  and  her  husband  walked  out  of  the  church  alone. 
They  paused  for  a  moment  on  the  steps  of  the  portico,  look- 
ing at  the  fresh  perspective  of  the  street  in  the  autumn  morn- 
ing sun's  bright  rays,  and  then  went  down. 

Went  down  into  a  modest  life  of  usefulness  and  happiness. 
Went  down  to  give  a  mother's  care,  in  the  fullness  of  time, 
to  Fanny's  neglected  children  no  less  than  to  their  own,  and 
to  leave  that  lady  going  into  society  forever  and  a  day. 
Went  down  to  give  a  tender  nurse  and  a  friend  to  Tip  for 
some  few  years,  who  was  never  vexed  by  the  great  exactions 
he  made  of  her,  in  return  for  the  riches  he  might  have  given 
her  if  he  had  ever  had  them,  and  who  lovingly  closed  his 
eyes  upon  the  Marshalsea  and  all  its  blighted  fruits.  They 
went  quietly  down  into  the  roaring  streets,  inseparable  and 
blessed  ;  and  as  they  passed  along  in  sunshine  and  shade, 
the  noisy  and  the  eager,  and  the  arrogant  and  the  forward 
and  the  vain*  fretted,  and  chafed,  and  made  their  usual 
uproar. 


The  Exd. 


Lth 


e  1    en  P  e  &  .■  i  J 


14  DAY  USE 

I  RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


MAY121970  r; 


1  -d  lyAU  Q  q 
REC'DU)  JUN15  70-10AM9  ^ 


I>"eendofSP,'<!MG!}?„,rfer 


MAV  2  472   8 


m'QU^    MAY 


i  0  7^  "iZ  PM  1  5 


JUN  1 4  1977 


^1^ 


REC,  CIR  JIIH  14  77 


LD21A-60m-3,'70 
(N5382sl0)476-A-32 


General  Library 

Uoiversicy  of  California 

Berkeley 


ivil94478 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


